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Tendencies of Modern French Drama . . . Agnes Sinclair Holbrook 121 

"The Immaculate Conception" — Murillo .... Florence Converse 127 
Foreign Influence on Modern Poetry : 

Hellenism: as Shown in Walter Savage Landor's "Dryope," Maude Keller 128 

Medievalism : as Shown in Tennyson's "Sir Galahad" . Florence Converse 182 

Seaward Ada S. Woolfolk 137 

Pen Pictures 139 

How She Entered In Josephine P. Simrall 140 

A Study of Shakespeare's Villains .... Kate Morgan Ward 144 

Editorials 154 

The Free Press 159 

Alumnje Notes 165 

College Notes 168 

Society Notes 164) 

College Bulleton 170 

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47 T e MP ,e P ,aee > B0S80JI. 

Vol. I. WELLESLEY, DECEMBER 17, 1892. No. 3. 









The Wellesley Magazine is published monthly, from October to June, by a board of editors chosen 
from the senior class. 

Terms, $2.00 per year; single copies 25 cents. 

All alumnw news should be sent, until further notice, to Miss Carol M. Dresser, Castlne, Maine. 

Advertising business is conducted by Miss Helen G. Eager, Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. 

Subscriptions to the Magazine and other business communications, in all cases, should be sent to Miss 
Marion N. Wilcox, Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. 

All items of college interest, and communications to be inserted in the department of Free Press, will be 
received by Miss Annie B. Tomlinson, Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. 

All literary contributions may be sent to Miss Florence Converse, Wellesley College, Wellesley, Mass. 

"French tragedy is a parody of itself," said Goethe, in the days when 
Victor Hugo was yet a child and Voltaire still reigned over the French 
stage with studied severity. And while the dramatic rules of Racine and 
Boileau were each year invigorated and reinforced, while Voltaire drew 
the classic laws ever tighter, and held in contempt the very Greeks as too 
familiar, the tragic drama did indeed pose and strain itself into an attitude 
not unlike a caricature of its former self. If, as Ruskin once said, "all 
copyists are contemptible, but the copyist of himself the most so, for he has 
the worst original," French tragedy at the beginning of the century must 
be declared most contemptible. Not only does it copy itself, but it emphasizes 
its own hollowest mockeries. Until 1830, Hugo himself tells us, " Instead 
of scenes we have narrations ; instead of pictures, descriptions. Grave per- 
sonages, placed like a chorus between us and the drama, come and tell us 
what is taking place in the temple, in the palace, in the public place, until 

122 the wbllesley magazine. 

we are tempted to call out to them, 'Truly? Then why do you not take 
us there ? It must be well worth seeing.' " 

But at the time when English actors entered Paris, in 1827, and played 
Shakespeare's dramas to an awakening public, the rebellious spirit of inno- 
vation was already at work among the French, and before the year was out 
war was waging between the old classic school and the new band of " roman- 
ticists." Of the half dozen writers who were bold enough to throw aside 
the stilts on which the stage had gradually perched itself, two leaders — 
Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas — succeeded in gaining a stand, and in 
demonstraitng that a true poet needs only " the sturdy limbs that nature 
gave " to climb Mount Parnassus and kneel devoutly before the shrine of 

One who regards Shakespeare's plays as the highest productions we know 
may perhaps view the masterpieces of these romanticists with some misgiv- 
ings. Hugo's Hernani has for hero a bandit who secures the affections of 
the fair Dona Sol in spite of the machinations of two powerful rivals, to one 
of whom he is indebted for his life. A compact has been made between 
them that at any time his rescuer shall blow a blast on his hunting horn, 
Hernani shall straightway drink poison as a tribute of gratitude to his noble 
friend. In the triumphant moment of the hero's marriage with his lady, 
won after many hardships, the horn is heard, — and Hernani, after quaffing 
his draught, leaves enough of the poisoned wine in the cup to enable his 
newly-made wife to share his death and contribute to the general discom- 

The rapid movement of the play has, however, its fascination, and the 
many exquisite passages leave the reader indisposed to dwell on obvious 
weaknesses. But we can hardly wonder that the classic devotees stood 
aghast, and that before the first run of the play was over there was not an 
act, incident or line that had not been hissed, at least once. 

Dumas' greatest drama is Henry _ZZZ., but he is better known to the 
American public through the dramatizations of the stories, The Count of 
Monte Christp and The Three Musketeer*. The giddy rate at which one is 
spun from one intrigue to another in Henry III. is quite a respectable pace 
when compared with the mad plunging through a hodge-podge of dangers, 
crimes, plots, hair-breadth escapes and thrilling adventures accomplished in 


the other two plays. The historic basis in them all is little more than a 
pretence, but they are stirring plays, with force, invention and variety 
enough to render them not unworthy one of the pioneers of a new school 
who, at sixteen years of age, was baptized poet, " in the name of Shakespeare, 
of Corneille, and of Schiller." 

The romantic movement was neither led nor sustained by great dramatists, 
and it is doubtful whether the plays which mark its advent will long survive 
now that the enmity of the classicists has ceased to attract by its abuse the 
attention of the public. The best of its writers are better at the novel than 
the drama, and it is only by their spirit and ingenuity that they claim the 
public ear. They are melo-dramatic in tone, and cannot be called great 
dramatic poets. Having scandalized the French drama out of its grotesque 
proprieties, they have performed their task, and, like Samson, they die with 
their enemies. The pillars which support the classic temple of fame are 
broken by them, and descend on their own heads, felling romanticism with 
their weight ; while of the levelled ruins is formed a new stage — so broad 
as to find room for Sardou and the younger Dumas side by side with Daudet 
and Augier ; so low, shall we say, as to offer a place even to Octave Feuillet 
and Georges Ohnet ; so strong, shall we predict, as to bear up under the 
thunderous tread of the naturalists, headed by the robust and relentless 
analyst of the passions of men — Emile Zola. 

The classicists preached a gospel of form, the romanticists elevated passion 
to the pedestal of worship, slighting not only convention but consistency 
and common sense. The realists came next in order, and were as energetic 
to repudiate the fetish of romanticism as the preceding school had been to 
spurn the classic gods. 

Emile Augier is the most gifted as well as the best known of the poet- 
romanticists, but if Voltaire's saying be true that "there are no really good 
works except those which go to foreign nations, which are studied there, 
and translated," Augier has produced little that is good. It is curious that 
our theatre-going public should be familiar with Camille, Le Demi-Monde, 
La ToHca and Fedora, when hardly one of Augier's plays is known even by 
name. The popularity of Dumas fits, whose claims to the title of moralist 
have been received with some derision, and the neglect of Augier, whose 
plots are eminently proper, lead one to judge that Americans are either un- 


willing to bring confusion into their dramatic vocabulary by combining the 
antipathetic terms French and moral, or that they are not at bottom con- 
vinced that the French play, of which Camille stands as the type, can be 
easily improved upon. 

It is not possible to discuss the relative merits of individual dramatists at 
length here, still less the mooted question of morality in the French theatre, 
but it is worth while to observe that the best literary style, the most fault- 
less taste and the purest thoughts may be found at least in such plays as 
The Adventuress, The Son-in-Law of M. Poirier, and The Son of Libot/er, 
three of Augier's best works. The disposition, fortunate or unfortunate, 
moral or immoral, shown by most Frenchmen of the present time, to hack 
away eternally at the seventh commandment, is not noticeable in Augier, 
though he may be but the verifying exception to the rule laid down by one 
critic — that the third person in marriage is as necessary to the plots of the 
French writers of the nineteenth century as the third estate in government 
to those of the statesmen of the eighteenth. 

Alexandre Dumas the younger, who stands between Angier with his sound 
sense and high ideals, and Sardou, with his cheap, showy plays, must be 
named as the greatest realist. For Dumas fils is the first to bring on the 
stage scenes taken from actual life, vital and real. His characters are strong 
and new, and although the idea of his best known play, Camille, comes first 
to the light in the earlier work, Manon Lescaut, his next greatest play, gives 
form to so unfamiliar a stratum of society that Dumas may be said to have 
enriched the French and foreign vocabulary with the word which is its 
title — ■ Demi-Monde. The half-world hanging midway between the real 
world and the social outcasts, and made up of an ambitious mass struggling 
to gain an entrance or regain a right to the upper circles from which it is 
shut out by fault or fortune, is hard for an American to comprehend, and 
even for a Frenchman to recognize, but it exists. Standing at the very 
threshold of the true " world," and resembling it as a very echo, it is thronged 
with repudiated wives, ambitious adventuresses, and clever intriguers. 
Dumas says it may be known by the absence of the husband. According to 
him, this strange half-world is a training school, and a young man like himself, 
with no moral instruction, living in the demi-monde until he arrives at the 
age of discretion, will discover for himself all the precepts usually laid down 


by anxious parents ; and these precepts, be it said, including the entire 
range of scriptural quotations, M. Dumas fils has it at his fingers' ends. 
He is a moral teacher — so he says. He has tried it himself, and immor- 
ality does not pay. In his later years he unmistakably preaches, and what 
immorality there is in his earlier work must be sought in omissions rather 
than statements. It may be immoral to fail to explain that Gamille is a 
grand exception among women of her class : it is not immoral to show that 
she is noble and self-sacrificing. Moreover, Dumas fils states squarely that 
he disapproves of badness. " Be not bad, for you will be unhappy " is at 
least negatively moral. 

Sardou, though so well known, is meretricious. A trifling writer, brilliant 
but not profound ; ingenious, but not sincere. It is a saying worth remem- 
bering that Sardou is cleverness raised to the nth, and cleverness with 
more of the light and less of the heat belonging to it than is found in any 
other man. The wide acquaintance of the general public with Sardou may 
perhaps be explained by the fact that Mme. Bernhardt acts his plays, and 
America knows La Tosca and Oleopatre, if not through the English tongue, 
through that language of all humanity into which they are translated by 
the greatest actress on the stage. 

An understanding of the popularity of French plays and of the reasons 
for their 2Jre-eminence aids not only in following the march of dramatic art, 
but in grasping the essential elements of the drama in general. To Eugene 
Scribe, we may look for suggestions. He, more than any other man, has 
perfected the art of constructing plays, and his four hundred dramas and 
numerous librettos have made a name for him in every land. Since his ad- 
vent the French stage has led the world, and his careful attention to plot 
rather than character, to action rather than thought, to what is done rather 
than what is said, may indicate the lines along which the drama is tending. 
The explanation of the fact that we all know Aclrienne Lecouvreur, Frou- 
Frou, A Scrap of Paper, The Partners, Our Society, The Iron-Master, The 
Two Orphans, Nana, The Abbe Constantin, The Paper Chase, — that our 
American stage is absolutely filled with translations and adaptations from 
the French, while such English and American plays as we have are largely 
imitations of the modern French school, may lie in the very nature of tlip 
French mind, which is clear, vigorous and picturesque rather than elaborate, 
profound and ethical. 


This versatile and brilliant people, always in the vanguard of civilization, 
has had half a dozen revolutions in government since the American Declara- 
tion of Independence, and three revolutions on the stage. Classicism, with 
its poetic calm and severe taste, held its own at the beginning of the cen- 
tury. Romanticism, with its fire and turbulence, was born in 1830 and died 
soon after. Realism, with its fidelity to every-day life and its photographic 
details, came in 1850. Realism still lives, but the critics who point to 
Tolstoi, Bourget, DeMaupassant and Daudet as leaders in the realm of 
romance, are certain that the more pronounced school of naturalism, which 
outrealizes Realism in denouncing plot, artistic skill, and artificial construc- 
tion, is crowding to the front, and must gain the day. 

Naturalism may best be described in the words of its most eminent disci- 
ple, Zola. It is "the return to nature. It is what scientific men did when 
they first thought of beginning with the study of bodies and phenomena, 
of basing themselves on experience, of working by analysis. Naturalism in 
literature is also the return to nature and to man, direct observation, exact 
anatomy, the frank acceptance and depicting of the thing as it is." An in- 
quest on humanity is what M. Zola proposes in his new school, with no aim 
but to observe. But although any inquiry must always attract the mind of 
man, one cannot, after reading such a play as Therese Raquin, help feeling 
a throb of sympathy for the man who defines a naturalist as " one who re- 
fuses to paint your picture unless you are pitted with small-pox.'" 

Whether or not the naturalists are the future dramatists, and whether or 
not the stage will become a dissecting table, unimaginative, unartistic, un- 
moral, one thing is certain. If the stage is to be universal in its range it is 
a mistake to bring only diseased bodies and rotting members for inspection. 
Zola's scientific spirit, while it may be in touch with the "historic criticism " 
attitude of the day, with the pitiless curiosity now uppermost in all schools 
of thought, fails in so far as it sees only the dreary side *of life, just as the 
romantic spirit fails in seeing only its ideal side. Perhaps a little touch of 
humor in Zola would give one a respite from his heroic hideousness. 

And yet he is the only dramatist of the century, except Hugo, who is not 
humorous. The drama of the day is Comedie — not the old-fashioned comedj^, 
but a bright, sketchy painting of modern manners with a dash of sarcastic 
humor. The great majority of French writers give us even farces and 


vaudevilles. The stage is also becoming more spectacular. The show part, 
the staging, costuming, grouping and scenic effects are often half the play — 
sometimes all. The tendency to abolish the old placard, which once an- 
nounced the city in which the scene was laid, and to indicate by appropriate 
surroundings all the circumstances and setting, finds something of a parallel 
in the disposition to leave out the statements of the morals supposed to be 
taught, and to expect the situations and consequences to speak for them- 
selves. Those who hold that scenery distracts attention from the drama 
proper may consistently claim that real and natural incidents distract atten- 
tion from the lessons taught. It is as true to say scenery destroys drama 
as to say naturalism destroys morality. If, indeed, we believe life to be 
immoral, we must hold that a picture of life au nature! is perforce immoral. 
If life seems to us ethical, a copy of life cannot but carry its lesson. If life 
is a puzzle, which can only be called im-moral, its photograph will be for us 
meaningless from the standpoint of ethics. Granted that the naturalist 
does what he says he does — gives us a chapter of real life — we shall, each of 
us see that chapter through the glass of individual character, and the re- 
sulting impression on the mind will depend upon the nature of the glass. 

Agnes Sinclair Holbrook. 


It came when all the realm of sky, 
That 'twixt God's earth and heaven did lie, 
Was dark, when masses heavy-white 
Of clouds, gray-shadowed by the night, 
Rolled writhing in the great On High. 
It came, a slender, crescent line 
Of light, from out the sun, to twine 
Its arms about the dark and shine. 

That night, a woman's soul that lay 
Along God's straight and narrow way 
Was dark. When, lo ! a slender line 
Of light — a ray from the Divine — 
Close clasped her soul and sought to shine. 

She wandered through the spirit sky, 
Adored by heaven's cherubim, 
And lifting to Great God, Most High, 
Her eyes, wherein her soul did lie 
The while it sang its praise to Him. 


And ever did the cherubim — 

God's heaven children, yet unborn — 

Whisper to her sweet thoughts of Him 

Who on that wondrous winter morn 

Within her arms at last should lie. 

They taught her heaven's lullabye, 

That stills the heaven children's cry, 

They filled her soul with thoughts of things 

That through earth's sinning should endure, 

And keep her child forever pure, 

As doth befit a King of Kings. 

And men may see that vision bright, 

Born of a painter's inner sight. 

The white clouds floating through the night, 

The woman with uplifted eyes, 

And flowing hair and folded hands, 

Surrounded by the cherub bands — 

God's thoughts in a divine disguise — 

And men may see the crescent moon, 

That new-born slender, silver line; 

But angels saw the ray divine 

Within her soul, the line of light 

That twined about her dark that night. 

Florence Converse. 


A GROUP of poems by Walter Savage Landor, known as " Hellenics," 
best shows the influence of the old Greek thought and art upon 
modern poetry. The poems are introduced by the lines, 

" Who will away to Athens with me? who 
Loves choral songs and maidens crowned with flower 
Unenvious? Mount the pinnace : twist the sail." 

Whoever accepts this invitation is carried into a country where Dryads and 
Hamadryads people earth and water; where the days are spent in happy 
revel, on the cool, grassy slopes ; where life is careless and restful. 

The story of " Dryope " is an idyll of this fair country, tranquilly and 
gracefully told. The subject is classic, and the treatment is in keeping 


with the theme. The classic spirit is felt, first of all, in the very sentence- 

" Oeta was glorious; proud of ancestry 

There Dryops reigned . . . but above 

All ancestry went forth his daughter's fame, 

Dryope, loved by him. ..." 

Although the passages are totally dissimilar in thought, a comparison of 
form may be made between this and, " Og 6/iev «»;/ xudlvde nolvliug 6io; Odvaoevg 
vnvqxul xa&iim&Qi\tt ev °s" " Thus, then, he was slumbering, wearied, godlike. 
Odysseus by sleep and weariness mastered." This shows a like position 
of words and phrases, verb and subject. 

" He rusht on Dryope, 
So slow in due performance of the rites. 
Rites which their fathers, for their gods ordained," 

is another instance of this Greek construction. 

Although the references to Nereids and Dryads set the poem among the 

pastorals of a later day than that of Homer, there are Homeric touches in 

the epithets, which give descriptive bits, without delaying the story. 

Dryope is loVed by him " whose radiant car surmounts the heavens." 

" The tresses of his golden hair 
Wills he to fall . . . On Dryope alone." 

Again note the Homeric method of character portrayal, by means of quali- 
fying epithets. The phrases, '•''proud of ancestry, there Dryops reigned," 
" Apollo, proud of Python slain," remind us of MeyulriTOQ Jkxh>ong or ylavx&mg 


The kind of beauty in the poem is an evidence of the Greek influence. 
No scene is overcrowded. The writer makes no effort to pack the verses 
with description. Neither is there any strain on the part of the reader to 
see all that is given. Indeed, more is suggested than mentioned. The first 
verse produces a sense of wondrous beauty. The classic influence is shown 
by the restrained form of expression. Where Swinburne or Rossetti would 
have given a wealth of color and glowing imagery, Landor, with the con- 
trol of a tranquil Greek, simply says, 

" Oeta was glorious." 
Again, in the lines, 

" He followed her along the river bank, 
Along the shallow, where the Nereids meet 
The Dryads," 


we feel the beauty of the cool river bank ; but Lanclor refrains from de- 
scribing the shallow. He is content to tell us, it was "where the Nereids 
meet the Dryads." 

Burst forth the sound of horn and pipe." 

The music is that of Greek pastoral life. Dryads and Hamadryads, revels, 

and the circling dance, bring to mind groves, alive with gentle nymphs and 

merry satyrs. 

"Weary with dancing, Dryope reclined 
On the soft herhage." 

No unnecessary detail confuses. The picture is beautiful, and is clearly 
drawn ; but, again, the classic restraint renders it a picture in marble, in- 
stead of a colored painting. 

"Before her feet 

Shone forth a lyre." " Whose that lyre 

Each askt." 

The name of the instrument suggests Apollo, and the sense of mystery- 
rouses thoughts of gods and unseen powers. 

" She thrust it in her bosom. Ha! Behold! 
A snake glides forth." 

This incident is directly from the Greek mythology. Then with the serene 
movement of the classic school, Landor stops to tell how 
" Antinoe dasht upon her fragile reed 
Her tender hand." 

The snake " rusht on Dryope so slow, in due performance of the rites." 
The tone here is classic, for the time was, when the gods were near to men, 
and brooked no slight. 

The description of the snake, by the nymphs, who relate much of the 
action and, in a measure, take the part of the chorus, is less restrained than 
other parts of the poem. 

" How he licks 
Her eyes and bosom ! how he bends her down 
When she would rise and run away." 
"How swells the creature's neck! how fierce his crest!" 
Another bit of a beautiful picture is the line 

" Deep in a woody dell, beneath a cliff." 


It suggests tall trees, cool shade, and the play of sunlight upon the "soft 
herbage." There is a restful green light over the scene, although Landor 
mentions no color. 

The allusion to teasing lizards, "on hot days," is far from modern. Nor 
can we imagine a maiden of Mediaeval times thus engaged. At this point 
comes in the one part of the whole poem which seems inconsistent. 

" ... The species seems 
Rare, it is true." 

The idea of a nymph making a distinction between "species " is astonishing, 
and has too strong a touch of the nineteenth century scientific movement 
to be spoken by a wood-nymph, in a Greek idyll centuries ago. 

The only bit of color in the poem is purple, and that quickly changes 
to white. The absence of color is an essentially Greek element. 

As the poem approaches the end, the fatalism, at the root of Greek phi- 
losophy begins to be felt. The nymphs return, " with downcast eye." They 
recall and tremble at the power of the God. The culmination of this idea is 
where Dryope is pitied by the nymphs. Dryope, 

" The victim of such cruelty." 
The restraint here is wonderful. The quiet withdrawal of Dryope, 

" Slowly, nor staying to reprove," 
has none of the nineteenth century fire and passion. There is no rebellious 
outbreak against fate ; it is entirely submissive. 

In four lines, Landor concludes the story of Dryope's life, Dryope " the 
happy spouse of Andrsemon " ; "the mother of Amphisson " ; Dryope "cele- 
brated in the groves and dales of Oeta." 

As a whole, the poem is objective. We must know the author's keen 
sympathy with the quiet Greek content, although he gives no subjective 
treatment. The atmosphere is that of warm springtime, in an Arcadian 
vale. The soft grass lies thick in the dell. The air is rarefied. We get 
no perfumes borne on the wind from the sweet flowers of the valley. It is 
all cool and clear. Although color is lacking, the form is perfect, and 
Landor gives real pictures, for we supply the elements of color and atmos- 

With the restraint of a Greek sculptor, Landor gives no more than would 
be necessary in modelling a statue. In this poem there are the elements of 
Keats' " Greek Urn." 


As Dryad and Hamadryad " run before, behind," we are reminded of, 

"What men or gods are these?" 

Dryope, slow in performing rites, suggests the "maiden loath." 

Keats' " What pipes and timbrels " might be a translation of Landor's 

" Suddenly 
Burst forth the sound of horn and pipe and clash 
Of Cymbal." 

The woody dell, if moulded upon a Greek urn might call forth, 

"Ah, happy, happy bough! that cannot shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu." 

The flying, frightened nymphs ; the snake coiling round the weary Dryope : 

the appearance of the god with arms outstretched, might all find place upon 

a chiseled urn, and to this vase the lines of Keats might well be applied : 

" O Attic shape! Fair attitude; with brede 
Of marble men and maidens overwrought 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!" 

Maude Keller. 


A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, 

Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, 
Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine, 

The cruel markes of many a bloudy fielde: 


Full jolly knight he seemed, and faire did sitt. 

As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters litt. 

So rides Tennyson's Sir Galahad, out of the forests of Provence, out of 
the realm of trouvere and troubadour, out of the mists of the Middle Ages. 
into the light of modern day and modern England ; past 

" Hall and grange. 
By bridge and ford, by park and pale.*' 

So he rides, with rythmic, rocking lope, singing his roundelay — his 
roundelay or Tennyson's? That is the question. 

The external form of the song may be regarded, on the whole, as legiti- 


mately mediaeval ; the twelve-line stanza, written in iambic tetrameter with 
rhymes for alternate lines, being simply a variation of the ordinary ballad- 
stanza. It is musical, but not in the complicated sense in which the essen- 
tially modern poem is musical. It lends itself to a tune, which the modern 
musical poem seldom does. It lends itself also to the mediaeval moods of 
the knight-errant who croons : 

" How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
On whom their favours fall! " 

or hums softly to himself: 

" I muse on joy that will not cease," 

or shouts through the forest with all the force of his mediaeval lungs: 

" All armed I ride, whate'er betide, 
Until I find the Holy Grail." 

Studying the poem stanza by stanza in search of medisevalisms and mod- 
ernisms, we find the first stanza crowded to the uttermost with images of 
chivalry; eye and ear are filled with the vision and the sound of the tour- 
nament of the Middle Ages, and the effect is accomplished mainly by the 
use of the quaint old words: 

My good blade carves the casques of men. 

T t * t t 

•' The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 


"The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly. 

tR tf vfc i(e 3(r 

" They reel and roll in clanging lists." 
And the realism of the scene is still further enhanced by the contrast of 
this little touch at the end : 

" Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
That lightly rain from ladies' hands." 

There are two lines in this first stanza that slip out of the heated air of chiv- 
alry and the tournament into a rarefied atmosphere : 

" My strength is as the strength of ten 
Because my heart is pure." 

And these give us an insight into the religious spirit of the age, — the spirit 
of faith and mystery. — and also a glimpse into the soul of the " maiden- 
knight " — a mediaeval soul, for what knight of to-day would not be too 


self-conscious or too self-deprecatory, thus innocently to shout aloud his 
consciousness of power, with all the trees of the forest near to listen and 
shake their heads ? 

The opening lines of the second stanza give us another touch of chivalry, 
an inward touch, a revelation of the chivalric personality of mediaeval man ; 
and the thought is again made clear by the quaint words : 
" How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
On whom their favours fall; 
For them I battle till the end, 
To save from shame and thrall." 

In sharp contrast to the chivalry appears the asceticism in the remaining 
lines of the stanza, — the allusion to crypt and shrine, the self-denial of all 
pleasures of sense : 

" I never felt the kiss of love, 
Nor maiden's hand in mine," 
and the religious enthusiasm: 

" More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
A virgin heart in work and will." 

Thus far our knight has proved his right to sing the song; has confined 
himself within the limits of his own time, and has carefully refrained from 
borrowing images from posterity. In the first line of the third stanza, how- 
ever, we feel for the first time that lie is trespassing upon forbidden ground, 
or rather that he is riding beneath a nineteenth century sky. It is of course 
possible, but is it probable, that a knight of the Middle Ages would have 
spoken of " the stormy crescent?"' The use of the adjective is subjective 
and modern, for while the thirteenth century doubtless had crescent moons 
we do not feel so sure that it possessed " the stormy crescent." 

The remainder of the stanza reflects the spirit of the Middle Ages through 
two other of its aspects : Roman Catholic ritualism, as seen in " the noise of 
hymns," the "secret shrine," "the tapers burning fair," "the snowy altar 
cloth," the silver vessels and the censer. 

And superstition, as seen in the lines : 

" I hear a voice, but none are there, 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 


And solemn chaunts resound between." 

THE WELLBSLEY magazihe. 135 

Stanza number four continues with the thought of the supernatural, 

changing for a second from the superstition of religion to that of magic : 

" Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board, no helmsman steers " 

and mounting to the religious again with : 

" A gentle sound, an awful light." 

In the next three lines our knight displays distinctly artistic tendencies; 

moreover, he is a Pre-raphaelite: 

" Three angels bear the holy Grail; 

With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
On sleeping wings they sail," 

and a Preraphaelite of the modern school, a fact betrayed by his " sleeping 
wings,"' another instance of modern subjective use of adjective. 
The mystic of the Middle Ages reappears in the line : 
"Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!" 
and expands fully into the nineteenth century poet in the last three lines: 
" My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 
And star-like mingles with the stars." 

in which the beauty, the feeling and the words (as star-like) are distinctly 

In this stanza we begin to feel the spirit of quest, effort, yearning, which 
so pervaded the Middle Ages, and this feeling grows more intense through- 
out the remainder of the poem and reaches its climax in the closing lines. 
It is the spirit of adventure, the search after an ideal, the yearning towards 
the spiritual, the mysterious. 

In the fifth stanza the modern and mediaeval touches are curiously 
mingled; we have the "goodly charger," the cock that crows ere the Christ- 
mas morn, the " brand and mail,'* while on the other hand we have the 
purely subjective treatment of nature and the modern use of adjective in 
"dreaming towns" and "streets dumb witli snow," and the wholly modern 
adjective in "branchy thickets." Ending with a bit of supersition and an 
exquisite but perfectly objective and mediaeval handling of nature in : 

" But blessed forms in whistling storms 
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields." 


Number six, continuing in the spirit of yearning, gives us a touch of the 
symbolism employed by Holy Church ; and also a glimpse of the almost 
trance state attained sometimes by the mediaeval mystic : 

" I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 
Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 
Who^e odours haunt my dreams." 

Culminating in the religious ecstasy of the last lines : 

" And stricken by an angel's hand, 
This mortal armour that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes 
Are touch' d, and turn'd to finest air." 

The seventh stanza breaks into joyous prophecy as the vision becomes 
more clear to the excited knight, who, no longer indulging in modern reflec- 
tions on nature, rises again to the height of pure mediaevalism from which 
lie started in the first stanza. Mystery, asceticism, chivalry, effort, all, are 
contained in the lines : 

" Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
Wings flutter, voices hover clear. 
' O just and faithful knight of God ! 
Ride on! the prize is near.' " 

Then with a sudden plunge the rider leaves his dreaming, and dashes off and 
away with the shout, impossible to modern world-weariness : 

"All armed I ride, whate'er betide, 
Until I find the holy Grail." 

It is cleverly done, this burst of mediaevalism at the end, but we must not 
let it blind us to the fact that our knight has several times lapsed into mod- 
ernisms, and beautiful as these modernisms have been, and much as they 
tended to beautify the poem as a poem, they have detracted from its 
mediaeval character. 

And yet Si?" Galahad is perhaps less impregnated with modernisms than 
any of Tennyson's mediaeval poems except St. Simeon Stylites, for the Idylls 
of the King, besides the subjective nature descriptions, contain an undercur- 
rent of ethical thought which is essentially modern. 

The question now arises : is it reasonable to suppose that the poet, in 


order to produce a perfectly accurate picture of the Middle Ages, will be 
able to strip from his verse all those modern touches which he knows 
enhance its beauty and its poetry? This seems to us impossible; first, 
because it would be turning backward upon the steps of the evolution of 
poetry ; secondly, because it would kill the poet. 

Civilization has advanced since the thirteenth century ; and that the evo- 
lution of civilization should continue in the nineteenth century while that 
of poetry, which is one of its elements, should circle back to the thirteenth 
century and leave our modern civilization in the lurch is in opposition to all 
law and experience. 

That the poetry of the thirteenth century could be written in the nine- 
teenth, would argue nothing more than stagnation, and a clever imitative 

Secondly, the poet is a creature of progress; and if he should persist in 
constantly forcing back his new growth of thought, he would smother 

We might then have imitators, dilettanti, amateurs, antiquaries — a com- 
placent race of individuals — but never poets. 

It is because of his very progressiveness that the modern poet has 
embraced these foreign forms and themes. They make his new thought 
artistic, they take it out of the ugliness of modern civilization, they make it 
more striking by contrast. The poet dreams not of returning to the old 
myth of the Greeks, but of creating for the world a higher myth ; of passing 
from the strange, chaotic, brightly colored imagination of babyhood to the 
higher imagination attained after the commonplace years of childhood and 
early youth are past. 

Let the poet choose as he will from the world's shelf of bric-a-brac, a 
Greek lamp, a mediaeval candlestick, or a liberty torch, but if he does not 
put a light in them, it were as well to leave them on the shelf. 

Florence Converse. 


In the heart of the hills a lingering stream 
Goes songfully on to meet the sea; 
In the heart of the hills enthralled in a dream 
My life waits wistfully. 


I kneel me down where the waters pass, 
'Mid purpling nags and lilies of white, 
I bury my face in the long sedge-grass 

That the waves kiss in their flight. 

I whisper down through the water's sheen, 
" Oh, stream, thou art brave to seek the sea, 
'Mid the sin and the shame that wait between, 
Thou wilt lose thy purity. 

" I dreamed a dream of the hidden years, 
And my heart is songless, my lips are dumb, 
My eyes are wet with the whole world's tears 
For the sin and the shame to come." 

The stream made answer in glimmer and glow, 
" In spite of purity, lost or won, 
The stately ships pass to and fro, 

And the world's work must be done. 

"Beyond the pain, and beyond the mist 
There waits forever the vast of the sea, 
And the voice of the hoar Evangelist 
Thunders, 'Eternity.'" 

There with my face in the cool sedge-grass, 
I heard the murmur of waters that flee, 
I caught the flutter of wings that pass, 
And my soul longed to be free. 

My feet were fain for the river-side 
Beyond the hills and the stream's glad birth, 
My eyes were fain for the vision wide 
Of meeting sky and earth. 

My heart grew eager to bear and know 
The toil, the pain, the shame and the strife, 
That rise and gain in the surge and flow 
Of the turbulent tide of life. 

Then, lo, in the hills was borne to me, 
Outpouring from water, and air, and sod, 
An echoing chant from the measureless sea 
Of the infinite spirit of God. 

In the heart of the hills, a lingering stream 
Goes songfully on to meet the sea, 
In the heart of the hills, enthralled in a dream, 
My life waits wistfully. 

Ada S. Woguoli. 



One day I was sitting on a rock by the shore, idly gazing out to sea. 
Nothing in particular was in my mind ; the sea and shore seemed uninterest- 
ing; but I still sat there, waiting, I knew not for what. It was a dull gray 
day, and very warm. The tide was slowly coming in without much life in 
it — -not even enough to foam and fret as usual at the barren reefs guarding 
the land. A pale line of foam marked the distant reef, and a narrower one, 
not stationary like the first, but growing steadily nearer, showed how the 
sea was coming slowly, relentlessly, to cover up the little jagged rocks, the 
dainty pools fringed with seaweed and filled with quaint sea-creatures, and 
perhaps even the seat on which I was resting. 

Still I felt disinclined to move. Slowly I turned and looked along the 
land for relief. No sign of life. The shore stretched far, an expanse of dull 
white sand here and there marked by tangles of prickly sea-grass, with its 
great spiky balls, or by thickets of screw-pine and cactus. All was bare, 
spiritless, even the vegetable life showing repulsive and gray. The sea 
were better than that, surely. 

Suddenly there appeared a sea-gull with strenuous wings beating out to 
sea. How changed things were ! A film fell from my eyes, the whole ex- 
panse showed its meaning in its face. Nature had given me one of her 
secrets to keep. There was no need of staying longer ; I had my lesson. I 
went, content to work and struggle if need be. 

All summer long the leaves have been gathering in stores of sunshine 
They have danced in the breezes, glowed in the sunlight, and eagerly 
refreshed themselves with the summer rain. The ripening time has come 
for them too. The glowing golden life has been shown through their every 
pore. The fulfilment of their dainty springtide promise has been rich and 
glorious. What next? There they lie in great brown heaps, yet in them 
is the essential glory which they had at the beginning. Is it all to be at 
naught ? 

Some one applies a torch to the funeral pyre. The time has come for ren- 
dition. The essential sunshine leaps out as the brown bodies quiver and 
shrink. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Some flee the glorious torture and 
are seen gleaming temporarily through the pillar of smoke, like dead souls 


from Purgatorj'. Not daring to live they drop, — leaves in form indeed 
but with the life eternally gfone. 

What a varying view it is ! It changes with every mood of mine. Or 
perhaps the process is just the reverse and the color of my thoughts, whether 
•• blue " or golden, shifts to suit the weather. 

Yesterday was a glowing day. This was my view: whispering leaves 
and flickering shadows, warm smiles of sunshine on leaf-laden boughs, cool. 
stray breezes from the lake. — that bit of blue sky fallen to earth and shim- 
mering through green trees and golden sunlight. This is a day when idle- 
ness is a pleasure — but work a delight. Few such days there are ii « any 
calendar. What inspirations do they bring? — " fair weather " inspirations 
all too truly, which, like "fair weather" friends, change with the wind. 

To-day, a different landscape greets my eyes. The lake, wrinkling dis- 
tressfully at every breath, sends sullen glances up at me and will not smile. 
The rugged oaks stand in stolid silence. The leaden sky hangs low above 
me. Far away, yet ever growing nearer, is the storm cloud. 

Agnes S. Cook. 


SHE had been very beautiful, very beautiful and very cruel. Loving 
hearts had been laid upon her altar, but she had turned from them 
carelessly. Strong, true lives had grown weak and worthless in her service, 
it was all as nothing to her. Xoble purposes, pure ambitions, lofty ideals 
had been thrown aside and lost under the spell of her malignant beauty, she 
had still swept on her way unheedfullv. 

She had been very wealthy, and she had given large sums of money in 
charity, but she had not seen the shivering beggar, who crouched beside her 
doorstep, waiting for a glimpse of the " Lady Beautiful." She had been 
very gentle and gracious to those around her, but she had known no more 
of their weary heartaches, their sadness and sorrow, than if they had been a 
thousand miles away. She had lived with no thought of others in her 
mind, with no sympathy for others in her heart — those others who would 
have given their lives for one of her cold smiles. She had lived a very 


queen in beauty and power, but a queen who received all and gave nothing 
in return. 

And then she died. 

They wept for her — those others — wept long and bitterly, and refused 
to be comforted. Her grave was covered with flowers, with the costly 
tributes of devoted friends, and with the humble offerings of lowlier sub- 
jects. The beggar stole in at twilight, and laid a half withered rose upon 
the mound, and the char-woman took ten pennies from her pitiful earnings 
and bought a bunch of pansies to place there. They all had worshipped 
her, and the} r all mourned for her, all except the little child. The child's 
mother had given her a cross of rare roses, white and beautiful. "Take 
them," she said, "take them to her whom we all loved"; but the little one 
had pushed them from her. "I will not," she cried. "I did not love her, 
and I am glad, glad she lias gone." And then she sobbed because they 
called her naughty, and she laid the roses on the grave unwillingly, but she 
could not bear her mother's frown. 

So the beautiful woman had died, and her spirit rose, and stood before 
the gates of Heaven, and demanded entrance there. The gates were of 
pearl, and a wondrous light shone through them, a strange, radiant light, 
which filled her with awe. She desired, with an intense longing, such as 
she had never known before, to enter in. But as she stood there an angel 
appeared before her, a spirit of brightness, and he spoke to her gently : 

"Nay, thou canst not enter here." 

Wonderingly she looked at him, for she had never before been refused 
that for which she had asked; but, perplexed by the strangeness of it all, 
and this new longing in her heart, she answered very humbly: 

" Wilt thou not open the gate for me ? All my life I went to the church 
and offered up my prayers. I gave generously to the poor, and I committed 
no crime. I did not lie. I did not steal. I did not commit murder. I did 
not covet that which was my neighbor's. Why may I not enter in?' 

But the angel only lifted his hand and stood in- silence. Then suddenly 
she heard music, as of the chanting of a great chorus. 

" Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy 
soul, and with all thy mind. 

M Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." 


The sounds died away, and the angel turned and looked upon her sadly. 
" Go," he said, "go and seek for this love, which as yet thou knowest not, 
for until thou hast in thy soul the k love which is of God,' thou canst not 
enter into the kingdom of God." 

And she turned and passed from the light into the outer darkness. 

She was very troubled and very sorrowful, as she had never been before, 
for she knew now how great her misery would be, unless this strange and 
beautiful longing which had taken possession of her were satisfied, unless 
finally the gates of pearl rolled backward for her to enter in. 

So she began her search for Love. 

She wandered on and on in the gray light, so gray and sombre after the 
heavenly radiance, on and on, until afar off she saw the lights of the starry 

" There I will go," she thought, " there among the heavenly bodies I may 
find this Love which is of Heaven," and she went forward until she came 
among them. 

Round and round her rolled the mighty worlds, each in its own unalter- 
able orbit. The minutes became hours, and the hours days, and the days 
years, but they paused not, nor changed in their courses. She wandered 
among them, and called on the name of Love, but only the eternal silence 
answered her cry. At last her soul grew weary, very weary, and her hope 
began to fade. Then the Spirit of the Universe stood before her, and spoke 
to her. 

" The mighty force which moves these planets is the force of law and not 
of love. Go, daughter, go again to thine own living world, and there find 
that which thou seekest." 

So she came again to her own world. She wandered among the mighty 
forests, over the high mountains, and through the peaceful valleys, and 
everywhere she sought for Love. The minutes became hours, and the 
hours days, and the days years. The seed fell to the ground, the flower 
sprang up, blossomed, and, fading away, scattered more seeds to the wind. 
The raindrops fell into the stream, and were borne on and on into the 
mighty ocean, from whence they were drawn up once more into the air to 
fall as drops of rain. The acorn became an oak, and the birds built their 
nests in its branches, lived happily their little span of life, then passed away 
and other birds took their places. 


She wandered over the mountains and among the forests, searching for 
Love, but she found it not, and her soul grew very sorrowful. At last the 
Spirit of Nature appeared before her and spoke to her. 

" The great force which governs nature is that of change, development, 
not of love. Go, daughter, seek again thine own world of humanity, and 
there begin thy search anew." 

So she turned once more to the haunts of man. She found much hatred 
and envy and strife among those men, but Love existed too, and grew ever 
stronger and more beautiful. It was truly the Love for which she sought, 
but it did not enter into her soul. She saw it on every side but she could 
not make it her own. The minutes became hours, and the hours days, and 
the days years, and men were born, and lived their lives, and died, and 
others took their place. 

Then despair filled her soul, and all hope departed from her. But, 
strangely enough, there came to her, in the midst of her misery, the thought 
of the half withered rose which the beggar had laid on her grave, and she 
turned, and wandered back to the grave-yard, where so long ago her beauti- 
ful body had been laid. There, in that very spot, they dug now another 
grave. It was very small, and into it they lowered the coffin of a little 
child. Near by was a new made mound where the child's father lay, be- 
tween the two stood the mother. She stood quite still, her white, drawn 
face lifted toward heaven, but there was a beautiful light in her eyes and 
her lips murmured brokenty, " Thy will be done." 

As the spirit of the dead woman hovered near, seeing it all, a great wave 
of pity filled her soul, and she bent over the mother and kissed her on the 
brow. Suddenly a strange radiance seemed to fall around her, and beside 
her stood the spirit of the child. "Come," it said, and together they rose 
toward Heaven. And lo, the gates of pearl were opened wide. 

They entered in, and she heard once more the angel chorus, and then a 
Voice, like the sound of wonderful, far-off music came the words, 

M A little child shall lead them." 

Josephine P. Simrall. 



THE origin of evil is a mystery ; its existence is a fact ; its outcome, we 
feel sure, is death. We cannot fathom the mystery of its beginning 
nor understand the fearfulness of its end; but, as a present reality, we must 
face it daily, and it makes for us the variety, the shadow, the tragedy of 
life. The power of evil, as we know it. finds expression in man. He may 
struggle and triumph over it or he may yield himself to it. When he 
chooses to be dominated by evil and gives himself to the thwarting and 
sullying of the current of life, we name him villain. 

The presence of a thwarting influence is necessary in drama, whose very 
essence lies in the knotting and unknotting of events or in the collision of 
opposing forces. In classic drama the fates or the anger of the gods acted 
largely as the opposing circumstance, while man's part in the tangling of 
affairs was subordinated. But as Christianity taught man more of the 
nature and power of God, fate and divine anger as the origin of evil fell 
behind one active impersonation of evil, the Satan of the Mystery plays. 
And as Christian thought still grew and men learned more of human respon- 
sibility, the drama at length gave us the villain, man himself the evil destiny, 
the worker of evil to his fellows. The tendency in introducing the villain 
was to present man as an incarnation of Satan, unmitigated evil. Shake- 
speare felt this influence in his early work, take for instance Richard III., but, 
as his genius grew and he saw more clearly that humanity is a mingling of 
gold and clay, in place of the stock villain, he created characters more truly 
men, though not less villainous. 

It is our purpose to study into Shakespeare's use of the villain and see 
what the poet held to be the evil in human character. 

Shakespeare, on the whole, does not use the villain as prominently as at 
first we might expect. The entanglement in the earlier plays is brought 
about by human perversity as in Love's Labour's Lost, by natural misunder- 
standing and incongruity of events as in the Comedy of Errors, Merry Wives 
of Windsor, and Twelfth Night, by supernatural beings as in Midsummer 
Night's Dream, by natural outgrowth of tendencies in mistakes, faults and 
thwarting purposes as in most of the historical plays, and by the working 
together of human fault and fate as in Romeo and Juliet, In the dramatic 
action of the later plays error holds almost as important a part as villainy. 


Brutus and Cassius, Timon of Athens and Cardinal Wolsey were victims of 
error, not of crime. And one feels inclined to place Mark Anthony here. He 
yielded to the joy of the moment, and his fault led him to his own ruin ; but 
he was no villain. He sinned grandly not meanly ; and though he injured 
others, treachery and wilful cruelty played no part in his character. 

We have the first trace of the villain proper in Midsummer JViyht's Dream. 
Demetrius is not a particularly active force in this drama as a whole, but lie 
is important in one of the strands: he shows a willingness to plot and a 
capability both of treachery and cruelty ; he is such stuff as villains grow 
from. In Two Crentlemen of Verona, Shakespeare's transitional play from 
comedy toward tragedy, we have a fairly well developed villain in Proteus. 
After this the villain appears very frequently, until Shakespeare reaches 
the calm of his last period. "On the heights," the villain sinks almost out 
of sight, and the complication is the Result of sudden impulse or past 

In attempting any classification of Shakespeare's villains we are met with 
many difficulties. In the first place it is not always easy to determine who 
is and who is not a villain, for we cannot class as such all who yield to the 
wrong. Sir John Falstaff was a prime rogue, and Richard II. was a weak, 
misguided king; these are not villains. It seems to me that in determining 
a villain we must ask, what are the motives for the evil action, are these 
motives habitual or accidental, and does the object of the action include 
cruelty toward others? Having formulated our test questions, the great 
difficulty comes in applying them. Can we discover the motives? Is it 
possible to know whether they are habitual or accidental? Is not all evil 
in a way cruel. In some cases the answers to our questions are plain, in 
others study can solve the problem ; but in not a few instances mere per- 
sonal opinion must determine the conclusion. However, on broad lines, we 
may form a correct classification. 

In glancing over Shakespeare's characters we may separate from our vil- 
lains the rogues. Falstaff, Sir Toby Belch and Autolycus represent this 
class. They are braggarts, topers, and of loose morals in general ; but their 
wrong is rather against themselves than others. They are not actuated by 
cruelty or treachery. 

Another class consists of more or less insignificant characters, bordering 
between the rogue and the villain. These are largely catspaws and accom- 


plices like Roderigo, Parolles, Trinculo. We may class Iachimo as half-way 
between a villain and an honest man; he entered villainy rather for the 
excitement of the chase than for any delight in cruelty, and his repentance 
shows he had better stuff in him. Here we may put as tinged with villain}' 
but not altogether villains men of mixed motives like the Tribunes in Corio- 
lanus, and those sinning from sudden weakness and repenting like Sebastian 
in The Tempest; and Leontes, Proteus and Bertram may be classed hereon 
the ground that they acted from temporary motives, contrary to their nat- 
ural characters. I, however, hold that they come very near the villain proper, 
and am strongly inclined to put them down as villains who repent in 
the end. 

Turning now to the villains proper, we notice first a goodly number of 
the insignificant sort, such as Stephano and Caliban, the murderers in Rich- 
ard III., and Macbeth, Borachio and Conrade, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
These all are low-minded, under-handed and cruel men. Shakespeare 
does not spend time over them and we will not, but will proceed at once 
to our studj* of the great villains. 

I have chosen to present two classifications on different bases, but com- 
mensurate. The following scheme gives them: 

a. Classification according to the moral and psychological view. 

1. Self-deceiving villains. 

King John. Angelo. Claudius of Denmark. 

Shylock. Lucio (?). Cornwall. 

Oliver. Macbeth. 

Duke Frederick. Antonio. 

2. Self-recognizing villains. 

Richard III. I a g°- 

Don John. Edmund. 

b. Classification according to the outcome in events. 

1. Those turning from villainy. 

Duke Frederick. Shylock (?). Edmund. 
Oliver. Angelo. Antonio. 

2. Those continuing in villainy to the end. 

Richard III. Lucio. I a g°- 

King John. Claudius of Denmark, Macbeth, 

Don John. Cornwall. 


These schemes are open to criticism and explanation. 

We may question the place of Lucio. Little of his inward experience is 
given us ; but he appears as an utter profligate, base and treacherous, lying 
for the sake of delight in slander, and, when discovered, without the grace 
of shame. Although in the main his vices ally him with the rogues rather 
than with the villains, yet his cruelty, suggested in his attitude toward his 
illegitimate child, and his delight in working evil, shown especially in the 
scenes with the Duke, justify our classifying him as a villain ; and his fan- 
tastical, irresponsible character leads us to mark him as a self-deceiver, 
though on this point there is a question. Shakespeare's conception of Lucio 
is given in singling him out as the one irredeemable man of the play. 

Claudius of Denmark did recognize the evil of his deed in killing his 
brother, but blinds himself against the utter villainy into which he has sunk. 
In the midst of his plottings he would pray. Oliver, Duke Frederick, 
Antonio and Cornwall are closely allied to Claudius in character and crime. 
We are given no hints that they recognized themselves as villains, and from 
general evidence we may [conclude that they were men who ignored or 
largely justified to themselves their own crimes. 

Shakespeare is true to life in giving us few self-recognized, deliberately 
determined villains. In the main a man slips into crime by small degrees, 
at each onward step seeking to make himself believe that he has gone no 
further. By what process Richard III., Don John and Iago have reached 
the point of deliberate villainy we are not told; they appear before us, full- 
grown in wickedness. In the case of Edmund the process is suggested in 
the wrongs of his birth and in his reckless foreign education. Edmund is 
the least black of the group, for he has more justifying causes for his crime, 
and he looks toward the object of his deeds rather than revels in the doing 
of them. He alone turns from evil when dying, "some good to do, despite 
of his own nature." 

There is salvation, Shakespeare teaches, even for the villain, but it is not 
sure. One condition is some shrinking in the nature from crime, some 
vague hope for something better, and the other circumstance we may call 
fate, for want of deeper knowledge. Retribution overtakes Claudius in his 
sin, while an Oliver and Duke Frederick live to repent; a man may sin like 
Angelo and be forgiven, but Macbeth finds no return. It seems to me 


Shakespeare would teach us] that the course of sin is toward death; and, 
although there is mercy, life and opportunity are uncertain. 

The classification of Shylock occasions some difficulty. One may be 
inclined not to call him a villain, another may hold that he did not turn 
from his villainy. I think we must call Shylock a villain. He is under the 
sway of low motives, avarice and revenge ; his outbreak over the loss of his 
ducats rather than his daughter shows the hold the former vice had upon 
him, and the strength of his passion for revenge is seen in his being glad to 
lose so much money to satisfy it. He is also obstinately cruel and the evil 
force in the plot, yet we do not call Shylock a villain of the deepest dye. 
We feel that the circumstances of his life and his many wrongs have made 
him what he is ; moreover he is kind to his own people and still cherishes a 
love for his dead wife. His heavy punishment excites our pit}'; no other 
of Shakespeare's characters suffers for his sin in so great a degree. We are 
not told the result of the punishment, but I cannot but feel that the broken 
old man did in a measure expiate his sin and find a better life. 

Having classified the villains in general, I wish to give some particular expo- 
sition of villains from Shakespeare's first, second and third periods; in the 
fourth period, as has been said, the villains are too insignificant to need 
special study. 

The two villains of the first period are Richard III. and King John. Both 
are actuated by ambition, are able, crafty and cruel. The marked difference 
between them is that Richard has no secrets from himself, he knows that he 
is "subtle, false and treacherous," but John deceives everybody, himself 

Richard III. is a monstrosity and approaches near the stock villain. 
Shakespeare took him as he found him, and has failed to make him a com- 
pletely rounded man by lightening at times the shadows of his villainy. 
Instead, crime follows crime, the basest and most cruel imaginable, until the 
effect of wickedness is lessened by its very preponderance. This study of 
unmitigated evil is. nevertheless, very powerful. In Richard's opening 
soliloquy we are given his motive force — ambition his method — treachery 
and some explanation for his course in his deformity and its embittering 
effect in his life. Here Richard openly announces his determination to be 
a villain. This is an artistic defect, for it would be more forcible as a con- 


elusion than as a premise, and it is difficult to imagine a man frankly 
acknowledging and planning for such wholesale crime at the very start. 
Richard is the poet's youthful conception of villainy; he is characterized by 
fearlessness and lawlessness, he knows " no law of God nor man," but he 
believes in himself and trusts- his own power to any length. Having his 
purpose clear, seeing the steps necessary to its accomplishment, Richard 
then proceeds to hide his intentions and his character, and "seems a saint 
when most he plays the devil." And, finally, Richard is cruel, cruel with- 
out limit and delighting in his crime. He earns at length the curse of the 
living and the dead, and worse than all, he himself condemns himself. 

"My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, 
And every tongue brings in a several tale, 
And every tale condemns me for a villain.' ' 

King John's distinguishing characteristic is his power of ignoring his 
unscrupulous deeds or shifting their blame on others. Even in the face of 
his mother, he dare say against Arthur's claim, "One right for us." He 
tries to put the blame of Arthur's murder upon Hubert, saying: 

" Hadst not thou been by, 
A fellow by the hand of Nature marked, 
Quoted and signed to do a deed of shame, 
This murder had not come into my mind." 

And again he deceives himself regarding his base yielding to the Pope, 
claiming it was done "but voluntary." The mask of his life, however 
grows thin on his death-bed ; truth, at length, forces recognition, and he 
says, "Within me is a hell," and then again, "The tackle of my heart is 
crack'd and burnt" : here lies a "module of confounded royalty." 

Turning now to Shakespeare's second period, we will study briefly Don 
John and Angelo : the former reminds us of the unmitigated evil of Rich- 
ard III., and the latter anticipates the subtle delineations of the third period, 
The villainy of these men is suggested by their outward traits. They are 
not popular, but cold, silent men, hiding away their lives and inclined to 
cruelty rather than to kindness. 

Of the two, Don John is less fully depicted. We see him a dark shadow 
at the feast, apart from the joy or sorrow of those about him, given to bitter, 
revengeful thought. He has not the ability to originate plots of the dar 
ing and magnitude of those of Richard III. ; but he is rather a supreme 


representative of the spiteful man. The joy of others rankles within him, 
and he is ready to stoop to the plans of low accomplices as " food for his 
displeasure." In his brooding, he has learned enough of himself to know 
that he is a villain ; he glories in it before his accomplices, but when with 
others, he wraps about him the hypocrite's cloak. Like most spiteful men, 
he is a coward, and is ever willing to flee from the evil consequences of his 
deeds ; but cruelty, treachery and cowardliness at length find their fitting 
reward. There seems little left in the man worthy of salvation. Shake- 
speare leaves him in punishment. If there was any return for Don John, 
we do not know it. 

Angelo, although lacking in human sympathy and proving false to the 
highest trusts of life, differs widely from Don John. Angelo is a self 
deceived man. He does not know he is mean, he does not dream he is 
capable of gross sin. He prides himself on being upright, just and irre- 
proachable, and for the rest of the world he has no charity. But we see 
him as a thoroughly selfish man, with motives consequently low. He would 
make his good name for the glory of it, and he would choose a wife for the 
money she would bring, and breaks faith with Mariana, when the money 
fails. This broken vow is but the beginning of his downward course. For 
a long time he still stands fair, but within are the seeds that at length bear 
fruit ; he condemns unmercifully the hot-hearted Claudius, and then com- 
mits the same sin but with deeper dye, trading in life and honor to gratify 
his lust ; and as a final act of treachery, when he thinks his victim is in his 
power, he goes back on his part of the contract. 

But he cannot do all this and hear no voice of conscience. He is not 
completely bad. Do what lie will to forget it, his " deed uushapes him 
quite," and he must say, 

" Would yet he had lived! 
Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, 
Nothing goes right; we would and we would not." 

And out of the depths Angelo is saved, for he truly repents his sin, while 
bravely facing its consequences. Shamed in the eyes of the world and 
worthy of death, Angelo gains life, because he finds his own place, sees him- 
self as he is, and turns in horror and penitence from his crime. The devil 
flees when we face him. 


In his third period Shakespeare makes his great studies in evil. Before 
this the workings of villainy in character have inclined to external presen- 
tation ; and where analysis has been subtle, it has not been carried to the 
• extreme limit ; we now find that the poet knows evil in all its depth and 
breadth, that, as he sees the bright possibilities open to men, he realizes the 
black depths into which the same men may sink. 

I have chosen, as Shakespeare's supreme representatives of villainy, Mac- 
beth and Iago. In these two characters Shakespeare presents the conditions, 
the workings, and the outcome of evil choice in men of rare gifts and noble 
opportunity ; and the great interest lies not so much in the outward sequence 
of events as in the inward experience of the soul. 

Macbeth possesses a fascinating personality. He is gifted and gracious ; 
a soldier brave and able, a prince beloved and trusted, a friend worthy of 
Banquo's love, and a husband exciting devotion almost past belief. He is 
a man of nerves and fire, versatile, commanding, and keenly alive, imagina- 
tive to the extreme, and fascinating even in his moods. This is Macbeth at 
the opening of the drama. The tragedy of the play lies here ; this intense 
personality comes under the sway of unlawful ambition, whose ends require 
outrage to the entire nature; ambition conquers, crime prevails, and the 
man is wrecked. Not the witches nor Lady Macbeth nor any external in- 
fluence causes Macbeth's fall; he ruins himself and he does it irrevocably, 
mind, body, and soul. Macbeth possessed a passionate, imaginative, sensi- 
tive nature, but lacked firm principle. His nature shrank from an aesthetic 
or moral shock, but notwithstanding he " would be great." This became 
his strongest impulse ; and Macbeth is a man ruled by impulse. Having 
thus given the rein to selfish ambition, his ruin becomes inevitable. Mac- 
beth may waver before the start, but once on the field, he rides hot to the 
finish. He violated his nature and his whole being became disordered. 
His mind was a mad-house, and his very senses played him false. Sleepless 
nights and dread dreams and fantasies worked toward a physical wreck. He 
became less and less controlled, crime followed crime, he was mad with 
blood; and then there settled upon his soul a terrible apathy from which 
even the shriek of the women over the dead queen could not rouse him. 
Life had become to him but " A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury 
signifying nothing." 


The drama of Macbeth is a subjective study of villainy; it shows us 
humanly speaking, the losing of a soul. Turning now to Othello, we find 
in Iago a man who has already lost his soul. Here the study is of the bale- 
ful effects of one man's utter wickedness. 

Iago gives us the keynote of his character in the first scene of the drama, 
when he says, 

" Not I for love and duty, 
But seeming so for my peculiar end." 

Iago was nothing, if not politic : he kept his end in view and played his 
cards well. He wanted money and he made Roderigo his purse : he was 
jealous of Cassio and wanted his place, and he succeeded in disgracing and 
all but murdering him : and finally he hated the Moor and laid his plans for 
the ensnaring not merely of Othello's fortunes, but of his peace and happi- 
ness, and in this he did not miss his aim. Only when he sought to entrap 
Othello's very soul, did he overstep himself, and right triumph over wrong. 

But why did Iago thus hate his general ? He suspects, he says, that he 
has been deeply wronged by Othello, but he owns that it is a " mere suspicion." 
It is in fact a consequence rather than a cause of his hatred : for the prime 
reason lay in the fact that Iago was a villain and Othello an honest man. It 
is the antagonism between a low. treacherous, cruel nature and one, mag- 
nanimous, trustful, loving. Othello's large sold continually exasperated the 
mean Iago, and he sought to bring Othello down to his own level. Iago's 
was the complete villainy that believes in no lasting good, that gives the 
bitter sneer at the purest action, and finds or creates evil in all things. This 
is Iago's chief characteristic : but working towards this, we find that he is 
suspicious, utterly false, spiteful, cruel. He is as complete a compound of 
evil as is Richard III., and reminds us of that craft}', determined villain : 
but Iago, as a man, is more carefully rounded, and his villainy is more subtle 
and deeper hidden. 

Iago is fully equipped for his purposes ; his will never wavers and he has 
a keen sight and quick judgment. He reads character readily and knows 
how to attack it for his own ends ; and he is an expert in hypocrisy, not 
even his own wife suspects the villain. He makes fools of eveiybody and 
aside smiles his smile at the making, until the fortunes of all are held fast 
in his ruinous toils. 


Shakespeare always shows the final overthrow of evil. Though the 
wicked may prosper, in the end they are plucked up by the roots. Iago 
works long for wretchedness and death and no one suspects it, till at length 
sin outsteps itself, and all know him then for a "viper," a " cursed slave," a 
"demi-devil," and a "damned villain." The discovery comes late, the 
tragedy is played out ; but truth conquers at last and Iago falls in igno- 
miny. We turn from him, and echo Ludovico's words, — 

"O Spartan dog 
More full than anguish, hunger, or the seal 

" To you, lord governor, 
Kemains the censure of this hellish villain; 
The time, the place, the torture, — O enforce it." 

In conclusion we ma} r note the fact that Shakespeare's general conception 
of villainy was always the same ; it consisted in the dedicating of self to an 
unlawful purpose, involving treachery and cruelty. Shakespeare's attitude 
toward his villains is interesting. He hated Richard III. and King John 
and rejoiced in their overthrow ; during the second period he showed more 
insight and his attitude was impersonal ; in Iago we feel he took an intense 
intellectual interest, the study fascinated him; and Macbeth we know filled 
the poet's soul, claiming his deepest sympathy and sorrowful regret. He 
cannot give him up ; at the end there is the flash of the old, heroic Macbeth, 

" I will not yield, lay on, Macduff ; 

And damn'd be him that first cries, Hold, enough." 

Notwithstanding that Shakespeare could thus enter into the attitude of his 
villains and sympathize with them as men, toward their evil he never 
wavers, but always brings it to condemnation. He rarely hints of punish- 
ment beyond the grave ; but even here in this life " Sin when it is finished, 
bringeth forth death." 

Kate Morgan Ward. 



JS the short story on the wane ? Is it too early to ask if, in the eras still 
to dawn, the short story, like the six-volume novel and the mastodon, is 
to become extinct? After the fashion of Alice in Wonderland, it is grow- 
ing smaller and smaller. Is it a demonstration of the survival of the fittest 
in evolution which now appears to us in the form of the pastel, the prose 

It is the delight of the literary evolutionist of the present day to trace by 
means of minute laboratory work the evolution of fiction ; to watch the six- 
volume novel dwindle to the short story. The six-volume novel is extinct 
to-day; no one has the time or the patience either to write or read six- 
volume novels. Why may not the short story meet a like fate ? We have 
just as much time and just as much patience now as we had in the mastodon 
period of fiction, but to-day we do more " while you wait." 

Before our very eyes the short story is shutting up like a conjuror's stick. 
The world is given over to the writing of prose poems. In the time that 
it took to produce one short story with its proper amount of continuity and 
polish, man can produce twenty prose poems; not good, all of them, to be 
sure, but infinitely better than a bad short story. A quirk of thought, a 
clever term of phrase, the ragged edges of an idea hastily torn from its 
fellows — away with continuity ! This is the pastel. 

The whole world writes pastels. The colleges cry for them. We will 
not say there is no such thing as a bad pastel ; there are some extremely 
bad ones, especially among the college pastels — the Daily Themes. But 
there is a certain amount of excitement attendant upon the writing and 
reading of themes. In plain language, they would seem to depend rather 
upon luck than upon ability. Because a man gives you a poor theme 
to day it does not in the least follow that he will not give you a good one 
to-morrow. With the short story it was different ; a man who wrote a poor 
short story once invariably did it again, and the short stories of the college 
student were for the most part pre-eminently bad. Not so his themes : 
these are the pride of his heart ; he publishes them, he rejoices in himself as 
a literary star of lesser magnitude ; the large literary lights beam upon him 


with encouragement and rejoicing ; the " Rhetoric Departments " take unto 
themselves pride and satisfaction because of these evidences of their wisdom 
in methods of instruction. 

What does it all mean ? On the one hand, there occurs to us the encour- 
aging hypothesis that the millennium of literature has arrived and that the 
whole world has suddenly developed a genius for writing fiction. On the 
other hand the same facts point to an alarming possibility. Remember 
that the short story is growing shorter and shorter ; it is approaching more 
and more nearly the dimensions of a luminous point. Can this mean that 
fiction itself may in time become extinct ? 

Something is happening to our imaginations. The critics, the interpre- 
ters of to-day possess far more imagination, far more power than their 
weakling brothers in fiction. There is imagination enough in the world* 
but it is turning down a new channel ; it is more busy with judging of what 
was, than in dreaming of what might be. 

We have done mighty works in this our nineteenth century. Friends, 
let us stop and think about them for a little while. It is fate. The hand 
of the critic is heavy upon us. See how the fire-fly fiction flickers in this, 
the dusk of our beautiful day. 

AMONG the many great opportunities offered to the student during her 
five years of college life, not the least is that of making friendships. 
In a way we may say that this opportunity is the one of all the most appre- 
ciated, for few women leave college without having known at least one 
" friend indeed." But if we consider the opportunity as carrying with it 
also a great responsibility, we must acknowledge that it is not fully appre- 

There is too often a failure to realize the responsibility of choosing a 
friend. Many friendships seem to be the result of mere juxtaposition in 
space. Room-mates, through no will of their own, are thrown together, and 
a certain intimacy perforce arises. The two, thus placed in a state of incipi- 
ent friendship, may be harmful to each other, or only unhelpful; or, as hap- 
pens oftentimes, truly helpful. But, in anj' case, the tendency is to accept 
what is at hand and to make the best of it. 

156 THE WELLESLEY. magazlnte. 

The cheerful spirit in which such friendships are undertaken is indeed 
laudable, and the effect in the rubbing off of corners highly desirable ; but 
in forming deep and lasting friendships — real friendships — there should be 
a stronger element of deliberate choice. We all want the best we can get 
of everything, and we generally make some effort to possess it. Why, in 
making a friend, should we be content with any one who happens to be 
thi'own in our way, instead of striving to attain the best possible human 
companionship within reach? Of course something can be learned from 
every living creature, but the fact remains that to be with some people is an 
inspiration, while to be with others is the reverse. Between the two 
extremes are all degrees of helpfulness, and it is the duty of every member 
of society to choose for her friends the highest possible. 

Various obstacles may stand in the way of such a choice. There may be 
diffidence; it should be overcome as in the fulfilment of duty. There may 
be the sense of personal unworthiness ; the desire to fit one's self for the 
best should be a resistless impulse towards self-improvement. These and 
other obstacles may hinder our choice, but, most common of all, "laissez- 
faire." As we grow old it becomes more and more difficult to make new 
friends, or to adapt one's self to new surroundings. The tendency is to rest 
content with familiar faces and to grudge a change from an established posi- 
tion. Should not this impulse be resisted as an evidence of mental sloth ? 
As our development progresses we should try to make new friends who can 
offer something valuable for our advancement in the. intellectual or spiritual 
life, and not rest content with old ones, our equals or inferiors, who inspire 
in us no spirit of emulation. To make friends with the noblest and best 
people within the circle of our acquaintance is a duty involved in the deter- 
mination of our environment. To refuse to take the best human society 
offered, through disinclination for the effort required, is a forfeiture of 
opportunity, and even a betrayal of trust. 

IN a recent issue of The Congregationalist appears an article by Martha C. 
Rankin, bewailing the growing disposition among college-bred women 
to leave home and seek their fortunes in the outside world. 

The article purports to be a dialogue between a physician, whose daugh- 


ter is soon to enter Wellesley, and a family friend. The physician laments 
the ingratitude and restlessness of young women who, after leaving college, 
refuse to give their lives to the work of inspiring and cheering their loving 
parents and regenerating their native towns, a sphere of action to which 
their duty obviously calls them. The friend, horror stricken at this melan- 
choly effect of the higher education, is able to offer no solace. We, how- 
ever, having reflected at length upon the trouble, feel prepared to make 
certain suggestions to the doctor. In the first place, if there is any such 
wide-spread tendency as he intimates, there must be an underlying and 
commensurate cause, and until we learn and remove that cause we may 
struggle in vain against the natural results. In the second place, there are 
in the home life certain circumstances over which the college woman has 
no control and which are sufficient to produce the stated effect. 

But before entering into this discussion of causes, let us ask the doctor 
whether he is quite sure that there is any work for the college girl at home, 
any work beyond what is involved in rendering herself an agreeable and 
interesting member of societ} r . Is it yet quite self-evident that the youth- 
ful bearer of the bachelor's degree is fully qualified for revolutionizing the 
intellectual and moral condition of her relatives and friends ? We are told 
pretty often now-a-days of what we college women may accomplish at home . 
of how gladly our mothers will retire from active life and yield to us the 
household keys that we may put our notions of domestic science and aesthet- 
ics to the proof ; of how gratefully our fathers will listen to our advice on 
business matters ; of what models of all that is good our small brothers and 
sisters will become under our guidance ; above all of how, under the general 
inspirations of our characters, the intellectual and spiritual waste in which 
our relatives have presumably been living will be made to blossom as the 
rose. Further, if our Samsonian powers do not find themselves fully 
employed within our own households, we may turn to the thirsting public 
of our native towns who are doubtless holding out their hands in piteous 
entreaty that we will come and save them. This, our advisers say, is sphere 
enough for any woman. 

If we may be pardoned the plainness of the statement, these suggestions 
strike us as extremely funny. They would probably strike some of our 
friends at home as more than funny. To be brief, as college graduates, we 


of course shall have, or should have, acquired some most desirable qualities 
of character, and we may reasonably hope to be sooner or later of use in the 
world. But we are not prepared to start in immediately and regenerate 
anybody. Our native towns hold us in somewhat lofty scorn as rather un- 
practical and very inexperienced people. Our parents would for the most 
part be aghast at the idea of yielding any of their duties to us. Our small 
brothers and sisters may think us very good fun, but are quite confident in 
their own general superiority. What we want when we leave college is not 
opportunity for important work, we are not ready for it, but rather the 
chance to test our newly grown wings, and to strengthen our somewhat 
flaccid muscles. 

College girls have lived a life of aspiration. As their mental horizon has 
broadened, the fresher, purer air has quickened their blood into new vigor. 
They do not necessarily devise philanthropise schemes or literary projects, 
they simply feel a natural enjoyment in their new sense of self-reliance, of 
independence, of mental and moral strength. They long for the time when 
they may act alone, when they may think and plan for themselves. They 
have come to feel themselves independent, although insignificant, parts of 
the world. In short, these four years have wrought a natural, and surely if 
woman has a soul worth strengthening, a not wholly undesirable, change ; 
they have developed children into women. 

If, then, the college graduate is restive and discontented at home, it is 
natural to suppose some circumstance of the home-life in conflict with 
these aspirations. It is not that she wishes to assume a masculine role, it 
is not that she longs to carry out some big and unpractical scheme of re- 
form, it is not that she has in any way ceased to regard life at home as in 
itself the most delightful after all. It is simply that she has gained a sense 
of her own individuality, that she has become a woman, and must live in an 
environment where her womanhood is recognized. 

Now it is just this point that the majority of parents do not comprehend. 
The Doctor himself strikes the ke} r -note when he says, "His wife and he 
felt that they had sacrificed a great deal in having her (their only daughter) 
awa} r from them during four of the most attractive years of her life." Why, 
we ask, are, in the eyes of parents, the years from eighteen to twenty-two 
among the most attractive of a daughter's life ? Are bright eyes and pink 


cheeks and merry, thoughtless childishness to them the summum bonum ? 
Do they place nobility of character and strength of mind in the second 
rank ? We can understand such an attitude in society, we cannot under- 
stand it in parents; and yet the answer is unavoidable, they do feel so, 
whether logically or not. Their daughter is to them a child still, and only 
in her childish lightheadedness can they take comfort. 

But it is not even this that grates most roughly upon her. It is that re- 
turn home means return into bondage — have we used a harsh word ? the 
circumstances are harsher — the bondage of one whose powers are chained 
to the pocket-book of another. We do not mean in any way to detract 
from the kind and devoted character of the parent. The more loving he is, 
the more complete, frequently, is the bondage. "Why should my daughter 
do anything but amuse herself? Why should she not dress herself prettily 
and be happy? I can support her; I am glad to do it. I want her to have 
no cares, no troubles. I want her to be a light and joy in my home and to 
pay no attention to serious matters." This is the brighter side of the 
picture. Of the other side, of penuriousness and unkindness, we need not 
speak. Whether the money comes as a monthly allowance or irregularly as 
it is needed, the effect is much the same. It comes as a gift and necessarily 
entails upon the recipient certain responsibilities — not the responsibility of 
devotion and love to her parents, that is a privilege, but of leading a con- 
ventional life, of leading the life planned out by another, of making no 
plans except with the consent, spoken or tacit, of some one else, of being 
something less than a free agent. This, we take it, is the reason why 
college women prefer not to return to their own homes, this is the effect of 
the higher education. And we appeal to a reasoning public, we appeal to 
the Doctor himself to tell us whether the blame should rest with college 
graduates, with the college curriculum, or with those who determine the 
conditions of home life. 

£0e Sere (press. 

On the privilege of wearing the cap and gown during the senior year. 
Total number heard from ...... 94 

" " in favor ...... 65 

" *' opposed ...... 29 


The adoption of the Oxford cap and gown by the Wellesley seniors seems to 
me desirable. I shall not state directly the reasons for my position, but I hope to 
make them understood by means of an immediate consideration of the arguments 
advanced by those who hold the custom in disfavor. 

First, we are told that if we should assume such a dress we should be guilty of 
imitation. We would be imitating, but would we be guilty? Is imitation in 
itself an evil? We who have taken one of our national hymns direct from Eng- 
land should not be afraid to follow her in other things, if we find them, after 
earnest thought, to be good. We should not hesitate to share in a good thing 
when we find it, even if some one else has been bright enough to discover it 
sooner than we. 

But, on the other hand, let us not rush into a mad copying of the whole when 
only a part is really good. Imitation is not in itself reprehensible, but it must be 
judicious to be of real value. It would appear that in a failure to distinguish 
between such a following of the custom as should preserve the best of its spirit 
and a slavish copying of its letter, the origin of many objections to the adoption 
of the dress at Wellesley may be found. Certainly none of us would care to go 
about clothed in the likeness of an abbreviated "Mother Hubbard" dressing- 
gown, nor would we under such conditions imagine that an increase of dignity 
was apparent. By the adoption of such a style one of the arguments in favor of 
the gown as we really wish it, would be without weight, namely, that the gown 
is in itself beautiful and lends an air of grace and dignity to its wearer. But if 
we should attempt to preserve the custom in its more artistic form and in its truest 
spirit, imitating judiciously, I cannot see that there would be fair ground for 

Just here it may be well to consider the spirit of the custom. We know that 
it originated in the desire of university authorities to identify students engaging in 
unwarrantable proceedings. But this origin has, to a great extent, been lost to 
view; certainly there is no association of this kind in connection with the custom 
in our American colleges. It is a significant fact that many of our own students 
were long in ignorance of this origin. Bryn Mawr and the University of Chicago 
do not seem to have been materially hampered by such considerations. Then 
what we may call the influential, working spirit of the garb is found in its sug- 
gestion of scholarliness ; the evil has been rooted out to give place to the good. 

I believe, then, that we need not, in this case, be ashamed of imitation; we 
need think only of the beauty and suggestion of scholarliness, since these are 


what first occur to every mind, since they are the most essential in appearance 
and significance. 

But we are further told that the adoption of any uniform by a particular class 
would render more marked the already pronounced class distinction. I believe 
that we are all so loyal to our college in itself that much more than the adoption 
of a particular dress by any class would be necessary to make class distinction 

And now I approach, with some trepidation, lest my remarks be misunderstood, 
a third important question, that concerning the faculty, in case the students should 
adopt the academic dress. I shall not discuss this question at length, but suggest 
merely that the principle of judicious imitation could be practised by the powers 
that be with as much success as by those that be not. If the faculty should choose 
to wear the scholar's regalia, judicious imitation would obviate all necessity for 
any appearance in the gallery even remotely suggestive of a New Orleans Mardi 

Caroline Newcombe Newman, '93. 


A new objection to the cap and gown was brought forward in last month's dis- 
cussion of the subject. It is claimed that the proposed adoption would be a poor 
imitation of a foreign custom. The charge of aping the English is by no means 
pleasing, and the advocates of the cap and gown should carefully consider this 
phase of the question. 

The objection does not seem to me valid. We have no more thought of imitat- 
ing Oxford and Cambridge in adopting the cap and gown than in forming boat 
crews. The custom as desired by Wellesley girls differs so materially in motive 
and form from the English usage as to be an imitation in little more than in name. 
The English uniform was compulsory and distasteful to the wearers ; the dis- 
cussion of its adoption here is an outcome of the wishes of the students. Instead 
of a protective habiliament, as it was originally designed at Oxford to be, it is in- 
tended as a garb of honor and distinction, and for the senior class. The English 
universities gown the faculty as well as the students ; no such arrangement has 
yet been suggested for this college, as has already been noticed. Again, the 
Wellesley students do not desire the abbreviated under-graduate gown of Oxford 
and Cambridge, but the full-length robe which was worn here last Tree Day, and 
which has been recently adopted by the University of Chicago ; and that, not for 
use throughout the course, but to indicate that stage of college life which looks 
toward the end. 


After considering all these departures from the English custom, I cannot feel 
that the charge of "aping the- foreigners," as Dryden puts it, would be justified. 
The mere fact of its origin in England amounts to little, for, had it not been in- 
vented there some American college surely would have discovered the dignity 
and appropriateness of such a garb. The added dignity, whether a matter of 
sentiment or not, is by no means a bad thing for a senior class. Uniformity in 
outward appearance would be likely to strengthen the desirable democratic spirit, 
and would tend to stimulate both individual and class endeavor. And the honor- 
able distinction of the scholar's dress should certainly belong to those who have 
reached the last year of the college course. 

The proposal that advocates of the gown don it at once, irrespective of class or 
rank, is scarcely pertinent. The costume is not desired as an individual addition, 
and no senior, I venture to say, would be willing to wear it as such. The whole 
point lies in its being adopted by the seniors as a class. It will then have a sig- 
nificance and distinction of its own, without which the gown is valueless. If it 
be true that there is no reason why the senior class should not assume this garb, 
then let the caps and gowns be ordered at once, and another "senior privilege" 
will soon be handed down to '94 and her younger sisters. 

Grace E. Grenele, '93. 

Were the men of Homestead justified in resisting the landing of the Pinkertons ? 
or, to make the question more general, are striking workmen ever justified in an 
organized resistance to the introduction of non-union labor? Of course it must 
be conceded that legally the Homestead men were utterly and absolutely wrong, 
but how was it morally ? Were they a mob of wild rioters, fighting against all 
law and order, or were they, blindly, only half consciously perhaps, risking their 
lives for a principle? Were the men who fell that day murderers or martyrs? 

In these days the majority of thoughtful people admit that it is right and 
necessary for workmen to band themselves together in trades unions; they admit 
that under certain conditions a strike may be productive of much good ; but there 
they stop. "A man has a perfect right to strike, if he chooses," they say, " but 
he has no right to forcibly keep another man from taking the place he has left. 
To do so is to interfere at once with the liberty of the employer and of the man 
thus discriminated against." Let us see how far this argument is valid. 

When a strike occurs, the position of the two parties is very unequal. The 
employer has capital and needs labor, the workman has the power to labor and 


needs money. They are equal in that each needs what the other has, but 
whereas the workman has nothing to fall back on but his own scanty savings or 
the funds of his union, the capitalist can draw at will upon a vast reserve store of 
labor. Had the trades unions as complete a control of labor as the employer has 
of massed capital the strife might be fought out on equal terms, but the laws 
which carefully protect the manufacturer against foreign competitors leave the 
laborer exposed to the competition of every foreigner who chooses to seek our 
shores, and so keen is the pressure of want that, regardless of honor, regardless of 
their own ultimate good and the good of their class, a dozen men rush forward to 
take the place of one who is out on a strike. Such being the case, a strike is 
foredoomed to failure, unless this rush of non-union labor can be kept back in 
some way. If the striking workmen belong to a trade requiring peculiar skill or 
training they may succeed in controlling all the labor of their particular kind in 
the country, as the Pilots' Association did before the war, or as the Brotherhood 
of Locomotive Engineers does now. In that case, there is no need of force, and 
probably no need of strikes; the men can protect themselves by simpler means. 

But when, as at Homestead, a large number of the strikers are common work- 
men whose places can be easily filled, how are they to make their strike of an}' 
effect at all if they must sit by with folded hands and see their work taken by men 
whose only thought is to gain a temporary relief from want? Shall we say to 
them, "My friends, you have struck for a principle and it is just and right that 
you should do so. Now, either give up your principle and go back on whatever 
terms your employer chooses to offer, or else stand by and see your places filled 
by men who will yield without question every point for which you have been 
struggling, who will render your strike nugatory and your efforts at self-protec- 
tion a farce." True, we do not find in most other relations of life so lofty a 
standard maintained, and the doctrine of non-resistance practised when so much 
is at stake, but since we have long been accustomed to demand from the working- 
classes far more moderation and self-control than we possess ourselves, let us not 
insist on this point, but let us rather consider the morality of such advice. Of 
course if the strike is an unjust one all efforts to make it succeed must be con- 
demned ; but if, as in this case, the men are striking because they believe their 
rights as workmen are in danger, then it is their duty, both to themselves and to 
their class, to protect those rights by every honorable means in their power, 
peaceably if possible, forcibly if necessary; and among honorable means must be 
classed, I think, open warfare. 

"But," it is said, " strikers have no right to debar embloyers from the full use 


and enjoyment of their own property in the form of machinery, buildings, etc." 
Certainly not, and neither had the Quakers of forty years ago the slightest right 
to interfere with the Southern planter's use and enjoyment of his property. 
Legally, every one who aided in any degree the Underground Railway was either 
a thief or a receiver of stolen goods, yet we do not honor its promoters the less on 
that account. 

" But violence is uncalled for," it is urged, " force of public opinion is far more 
effective than force of arms." True, but how is public opinion to be aroused? 
"If," says Mr. Shaw, "Mr. Frick had refused to arbitrate, or to discuss, or to 
negotiate, or to be anything else than imperative and arbitrary, the men should 
have made their protest in a dignified way, appealed to the enlightened and 
humane opinion of the country, and gone peaceably back to work." Now, it is 
a sad fact that the enlightened and humane opinion of the country cares remark- 
ably little for the rights or wrongs of any body of workers unless it realizes that 
these workers are likely to become dangerous to itself. A year and a half ago 
the Tennessee miners tried an appeal to it with absolutely no effect. Ever since 
the days of Kingsley a few great-hearted men and women have been trying to 
rouse it to the evils of the sweating system, yet to-day the sweaters' dens of New 
York equal almost any scene of horror described in "Alton Locke." Public 
opinion, like heaven, helps those who are able and ready to help themselves, and 
there is a grim sarcasm in the advice to workers to defend their rights by an 
" appeal," accompanied by no stronger demonstration. 

"But," it is objected, "the unions admit only a certain number. Suppose 
they are successful in keeping out other workers, what is to become of these un- 
fortunates who are willing and anxious to work under conditions which the union 
men will not endure?" Well, what is to become of them? That is one of the 
serious problems of our problematic age, but it hardly seems fair to throw the 
responsibility of its solution upon the trades unions, rather than on any other class 
of men, sav, for instance, clergymen or capitalists. How did they fare before 
the strike began, and what will become of them when it is over? Moreover, it is 
difficult to see how, in the long run, the condition of unorganized labor will be 
improved bv lowering the condition of organized labor. Eventually, whatever 
benefits one class of workers benefits all. 

To sum up, then, the organized resistance of union men to the introduction of 
non-union labor is justifiable in principle, since it is a means, and almost the onlv 
means, of self-protection for the workers. Moreover it is a natural corollary of 
the right, now almost universally admitted, of workmen to unite in trades unions. 


To admit the one right while denying the other is to be as consistent as the old 
rulers who proclaimed liberty of conscience, but explained that this meant only 
liberty to think as one chose, not to speak or act in opposition to established doc- 
trines. Also, such organized resistance is justified by its results, since it is the 
surest way of calling public attention to the subject of dispute, and forcing the 
rights and wrongs of laborers and capitalists upon the public mind. 



As "Far and Near," the organ of the Working Girls' Clubs, enters upon its 
third year those specially interested in its welfare wish to make a new effort to 
increase its circulation and to place it upon a firm basis as a business enterprise. 
They appeal, therefore, to all who believe in the club principles of "co-operation, 
self-government and self-reliance " to give the paper their support. Trust- 
ing to the warm sympathy which exists naturally between college women and the 
clubs, they ask the favor of the " Wellesley Magazine " and its readers, and urge 
upon them all to subscribe to this periodical, which, though young, has already 
a place of its own which no other paper could fill. Subscriptions may be sent to 
Miss Calkins. The magazine is published monthly, and the subcription price is 
one dollar. A sample copy may be found on the table of the reading-room. 


Lack of space, not of appreciation, makes it necessary for us to omit our 
Exchange Department this month. 

$fumnae (Ttofeg. 

Marion L. Gurney, '88, has become Sister Marion, Novice of St. Margaret. 
At present her work is at St. Margaret's Sisterhood, 17 Louisburg Square, 

Anna Palen, '88, is taking cooking lessons at the Drexel Institute, Philadel- 

Harriet Stone, '88, has been re-elected to the position of secretary of the 
Chicago branch of the Association of Collegiate Alumnae. 

Mary Howe, '88, has returned from abroad and is at home. Her address is 
^-^ Chestnut St, Chicago, 111. 


Catherine Burrowes, '89, is teaching in Monticelli Seminary, Godfrey, Illinois. 

Edith Wilkinson is teaching in the Hyde Park High School, Chicago, as for 
the past two years. 

The address of Mrs. Mary Zimmerman Fiske, formerly of '89, is 376 Dayton 
street, Chicago, Illinois. 

Sara H. Groff, '89, is teaching in Greenwich, Conn. 

The post-nuptial receptions of Mrs. Sophie Bogue Huff occurred at her home, 
5 Washington Place, Chicago, Illinois, in October. 

Alice M. Libby, '89, is teaching Greek and Latin in the Hardy School, Duluth, 

Florence L. Ellery, '89, is teaching in Miss Crittenden's school in Rochester, 
N. Y. 

The address of Mis. Hattie Weaver Krohn, '89, is 205 University avenue, 
Champaign, Illinois. 

Miss Ethel Paten, '89, is spending a second winter in Berlin. 

Mary Stinson, '89, will be with Miss Paten through November and December. 

Florence Soule, '89, has resumed her last year's position in Minnesota. 

Julia Ferris, '89, is teaching in Riverside, a suburb of Chicago. 

Maiy Taylor Blauvelt, B. A., '89, M. A., '92, .has an article entitled "The 
Religious Teachings of yEschylus " in the August and September numbers of 
"Poet Lore." 

May Fine, '89, is spending the fall and a portion of the winter in Nevada and 

Bessie Mackey, '89, is assistant librarian in Drexel Institute, Philadelphia. 

Eleanor Gamble, '89, is teaching Greek and Latin in the Plattsburg High 

Mary Osborne Hoyt, 'S9, is studying at the Hohnemann Medical College, 

Katharine M. Quint, '89, is preceptress in a High School in Woodstock, Vt. 

Jeannette Welch, '89, is a student of biology in the University of Chicago. 

Elsie Thalheimer, '89, is with the American Book Company in New York. 

Mrs. Jessie Morgan Eakin, 89, is at her home in Elgin, 111, as her husband is 
pursuing advanced work at the University of Chicago. 

Mary Louise Pearsons, '89, is teaching mathematics in the Preparatory School 
of the Northwestern University, Evanston, Illinois. 


Sadie Robson, '89, is still abroad. 

The correct post-office address of Mrs. Mark J. Patterson — Mary Ellen Traver- 
see, '89, — is 210 Fay street, Denver, Colorado. 

Annie Lord, '90, is teaching German in the Denver College, Colorado. 

Grace M. Brackett, '90, is teaching the Sciences in the High School, Holyoke, 
Mass. Her address is 328 Maple street. 

Helen Clarke, '90, is spending the winter on the Pacific coast. 

Sarah McNary, '90, is teaching in the Normal School in Newark, and study- 
ing history under Professor Salmon of Vassar. 

Elizabeth Wiggin, '90, is teaching in Newark, New Jersey. 

Mary Orton, '90, is teaching in the Wellesley School in Louisville. 

Margaret Ingalls, '88-'90, is also in Louisville in the Wellesley School. 

Rose Sears, '90, is in Wellington, Cape Colony, South Africa, teacher of 
Greek and higher mathematics in Huguenort Seminary. 

Alice Jackson, '91, is at Victor Hugo avenue, Paris, studying history and 

Amy Morris Mothershead, '91, is teaching in Miss Braun's private school, 431 
West 13th street, Kansas City. 

The address of Mrs. William Pierpont Edwards, Mae Louise Alden, '91, is 
Essex street, Longwood, Mass. 

Marguerita Spaulding, '91, is visiting in Chicago. 

Eva Ewing, formerly of '91, has recently visited May D. Newcomb, '91, while 
en route to Washington. 

Lucy White, '91, is spending the year in Evanston, Illinois, with her brother, 
who is professor of mathematics in the Northwestern University. 

May D. Newcombe, formerly of '91, is teaching English literature in the 
Columbia School of Oratory, Chicago, Illinois. 

Ada Woolfolk, '91, is teaching in the Mary School, St. Louis, Missouri. 

Anna Wilkinson, '92, is studying art, both studio work and history of art, at 
her home, 92 Bowen street, Providence, R. I. 

Gertrude Spalding, '92, is teaching for a short time in Albany. 

The address of Mrs. Edward M. Bassett — Annie Preston, '83-'85, — is 178 
Macon street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Miss Antoinette Cary, formerly of the class of '93, Wellesley, is president of 
the University Organization in Chicago University. 

Miss Alice Dow, formerly of '93, Wellesley, will spend the winter in California. 

Miss Mary Marot, formerly of the class of '94, Wellesley, is a student at 
Chicago University this year. 



Hayfokd — Knowlton. Nov. 15, at Woburn, Mass., Mary L. Knowlton, '88, to Dr. 
Ernest L. Hayford. At home, 2741 Paulina street, Ravenswood, Chicago, 111. 

Kelly — Bowers. Tuesday, Nov. 22, married in St. Peter's Church, Delaware, Ohio, 
Grace L. Bowers, student at Wellesley, '88-'89, and William J. Kelly of New Orleans. 

Ckandall — Hakt. In Racine, Wis., Dec. 8, '92, Nellie Hart, '8G,[to Mr. L. A. Cran- 
dall. At home, 4443 Berkeley avenue, Chicago. 

Bkown — Hicks. In Lansingburg, N. T., Nov. 24, '92, Emma Kate Hicks, '89, to Mott 
D. Brown. At home, 155 Palisade avenue, Yonkers, N. Y. 


In Dover, N. J., Sept. 5, a daughter, Mary Elizabeth, to Mrs. Abbie Condict Singleton, 
Wellesley, '85-' 87. 

In Denver, Colorado, September, a second son to Mrs. Mary Ellen Traversee Patterson, 

In Brooklyn, N. Y., March 20, '92, a son, Preston Rogers, to Mrs. Annie Preston Bas- 
sett, '83-' 85. 

Coffege (Tlofes. 

On Thanksgiving Day, entertainments were, as usual, given by parties of the 
students at the Women's Prisons at Sherburne and Dedham. 

The entertainment at Sherburne consisted of music, vocal and instrumental, 
the acting of scenes from Lord Fauntleroy and humaniphone. 

At Dedham, college songs, the reading of " The Courtin' " and " The Ballad 
of the Oyster Man," accompanied by Shadow pictures and the acting of "Three 
Old Maids of Lee " in pantomime made up the programme. 

The night before Thanksgiving a candy pull was held at Freeman. 

On Thanksgiving Day, as usual, those students who remained at The Eliot 
during the recess were pleasantly entertained at Freeman. 

The Freshman Class will not organize this year until after the semester exami- 

On November 14, a delightful Piano Recital was given in the chapel by Carl 
Faelten. The programme included selections from the works of Beethoven, 
Schubert, Schumann and Chopin. 

The second concert in the series of entertainments for the benefit of the Munroe 
Fund was given in the Chapel, Monday evening, November 21, by Miss Geral- 
dine Morgan, violinist, assisted by Air. J. J. Haves, reader, and Miss Minnie A. 
Stowell, pianist and accompanist. 

The Beethoven Quartette of Boston, assisted by Mr. Jacques Benavente, Viola, 
gave a Chamber Concert on Monday evening, November 28, in the chapel. 

The following friends have been welcomed back to Wellesley during the 
month : 

Miss Alice Campbell ; Miss Josephine Emerson, '92 ; Miss Marion Emerson, 



Miss Anna Knapp, Miss Theresa Stanton, '92 ; Miss Cornelia Green, '92 ; Miss 
Eleanor Green, '92 ; Miss Alice Pierce, '92 ; Miss Margaret Lauder, '92 ; Miss 
Esther Bailey, '91 ; Miss Harriet Towne ; Mrs. Mae Alden Edwards, '91 ; Miss 
Carol Dresser, '90 ; Miss Helen Jones Miss ; Mabel Curtis, '90 ; Miss Alice 
Clement, '91 ; Miss Esther Pruden, Miss Rachel Hartwell, '91. 

J^ociefE (Uofe0. 

The programme of the last regular meeting of the Agora was as follows : 
Functions and Powers of the Supreme Court 
Influence and Practical Working of Supreme Court 
Composition and Method of Election of House of 
Representatives ...... 

Composition and Method of Election of Senate 

Comparison of Congress with English Parliament . 

The regular meeting of the Shakespeare Society was held Dec. 3 

The following programme was presented : 

Georgian Tragedy. 
I. Shakespeare News ...... 

II. The Parallel Development of Greek and English 
Tragedy ....... 

III. Dramatic Representation. 

Henry III. 
Queen Katharine 

Miss MacPherson. 
Miss Hawley. 

Miss Hibbard. 
Miss Lilian Jones. 
Miss May Young, '95. 

Miss C. Emerson. 

Miss Campbell. 

Act III. Scene I 




Campeins . 
Waiting Woman 
A Comparison of 

ess of the 

Miss Lincoln. 

Miss Shuttlewort": 

Miss Mudgett. 

Miss A. Bonney. 


the Storm and Str 
Georgian Dramatists with that of Shake 
speare's Contemporaries 
Talk : The Lyric in Georgian Tragedy 
Dramatic Representation. 

King Lear. Act IV. Scene VII 
King Lear ..... 
Cordelia . 


Doctor ..... 

Beatrice : A Study from " The Cenci 

Miss Lucas. 
Miss Crapo. 

Miss Hordon. 

Miss White. 

Miss Stahr. 

Miss Blake. 

Miss Randolph. 

The following programme was presented at the regular meeting of Phi 
held November 26 : 

Morris, the Apostle of Beauty. 
The Spirit of the Pre-raphaelite School 
Pictures from the Pre-raphaelites. 
William Morris as an Artist .... 

Miss Ruddle. 

Miss Simrall. 



Miss Rogers. 

4. Pictures from William Morris. 

At the regular meeting of the Art Society, held in the Art Gallery November 
19, Miss Hoopes and Miss Winton of '93, and Miss Strong of the Special Organi- 
zation were initiated. The following programme was presented : 

Shakespearean Drama. 
Shakespeare and his Predecessors 
Tableaux : 

a. Tragedy. 

1. Marlowe's " Jew of Malta." 

2. Shakespeare's " King Lear." 

b. Romantic Comedy. 

1. Lyly's " Lore or Metamorphosis." 

2. Shakespeare's "Winter's Tale." 

Z. A. has held its regular programme meetings on November 19th and Decem- 
ber 10th. 

The general subject of the meetings was "Forecasts in Literature, of the 
Twentieth Century ' The following are the programmes : 
November 19th. Poetry and the Drama. 
I. Harbingers of a new school of poetry . Marion Canfield 

II. Democracy of Walt Whitman . . . Frances Pinkham 

III. The Future of the Drama .... Adah Hasbrook 

IV. Elements of Permanence in Browning's Dramas Clara Helmer 
V. Forecasts of the Future in " Paracelsus " and "In 

Memoriam.". ...... Grace Grenell 

December 10th. Criticism and Fiction. 
I. The " New Criticism " .... Isabelle Sims 

II. Matthew Arnold as a Critic . . . Lydia Pennington 

III. Origin, Aim and Character of the Short Story Helen Bennett 

IV. Comparison of the English and American 
Short Story ...... 

V. The Future of the Novel .... 

Florence Forbes 
Alice Kellogg 



















Coffege QSuffefin. 

Term opens. Dr. Lyman Abbott speaks in the evening. 

Prayer meeting. 

Prayer meeting. 

Dean Huntington of Boston University preaches. 

Reading by Geo. W. Cable. 

Bishop Brooks speaks. 

Dr. McCullongh of Worcester preaches. 


Day of prayer for colleges. 



4* A n( 

lowles vjompany, 

Importers and Retailers of 


15 Winter Street, BOSTON. 

Special attention given to young people's Fancy 
Dress Shoes. 

Usual College Discounts given. 

H% H. Carter & Co., 

Stationers and Engravers, 


20 per cent. Discount 

on purchases made by 

Students from Wellesley College. 

3 Beacon Street, 

Your attention is called to our stock of 


Toilet and Desk Funishings in Sterling and Plated Silver. 


Marble and Iron Clocks, $G.OO to $20.00. 

Stock in all departments always complete. 

A, Stowell & Co,, 

24 Winter Street, 


New Pictures. 

Etchings, Engravings, Photographs, just 
received from the best American, English, French, 
and German publishers. 

The largest and finest stock to select from in 
New England, — and prices satisfactory. 

Special attention to Artistic Framing. 
190 Boylston Street, - - Boston. 

Artists' Materials. 


Art Studies and Books. 

Oil and Water Colors: Crayons; Materials 
for Tapestry, Painting, etc. 

Wadsmofth, Homland & Go., 

82 & 84 Washington St., Boston. 
Principal Factories: { & AL ^ 1S % S A S INE . 

dharles £. Fess, 

A. N. Cook & Co., 


Importers, Manufacturers, Jobbers and Dealers in 


Fine Hats and Fine Furs, 

Umbrellas, Parasols and Canes. 

377 & 379 Washington St., 

Opp. Franklin St., BOSTON. 

Special attention given to covering and repairing. 



9 Temple Place, 




Gloves aod Veiling. 

/ryss (TV p. pisK. 


fealls txje attention of trie Veurja Ladies to rjer stoc^ of X)ia, Clrjaressea i)ia, ana J@)oa ©511) (§rloves, 

that are suitable Top all eccasiens. e/llso to rjep verv Becernina stoclj of Veilinas. 

e/lrja solicits trjeir pafrerjaae, ana will aive to any of trje ©tuaents © per cent, discount. 


by people who have tried it that the quickest and surest relief for 
all Bronchial affections, Coughs, Huskiness, etc., is 

Bronchial Cough 


It was never advertised until the demand from the successful use 
of the Syrup promised its general use. 

Physicians, Ministers, Public Speakers, Singers, are now sending 
for it from all parts of the United States. 

25 Cents a Bottle at Druggists. 

Physicians' Prescriptions carefully prepared. All the Drugs 
and Druggists' Sundries needed in the home always in stock. 

WM. A. CHAPIN, Apothecary, 

Under U. S. Hotel, Boston. 




Opposite Railroad Station, Wellesley. 

Cut Flowers and Plants of the Choicest Varieties on 
hand. Floral designs for all occasions arranged at 
shortest notice. Orders by mail or otherwise promptly 
attended to. Flowers carefully packed and forwarded to 
all parts of the United States and Canada. 

in all Departments 
of Literature . . 

can be found at our store. The largest 
assortment in Boston of the popular and 
standard authors. Also a large variety at 
special reductions. Large variety of Bibles, 
Prayer Books, Booklets, etc. 


De Wolfe, piske & Go., 

The Archway Bookstore, 

361 & 365 Washington Street, 


/T\rs. U/. B. <?roel\en 

Importer and Designer of 

fine * (mimiu*£, 

318 Boylston St., Boston. 


Wellesley Pharmacy, 

(^5. U/. p^Y, proprietor. 

Physicians' Prescriptions a Specialty. 

Finest Roadbed on the Continent. 




First Glass Through Gar Hoate 

To the West. 

Through Trains leave Boston as follows: 

8.30 a. m. (ex. Sunday) Day Express. 
10.30 a. m. (daily) Chicago Special. 
2.00 p. in. (daily) North Shore Limited. 
3.00 p. m. (ex. Sunday) 8t. Louis 

5.00 p. in. (daily) Cincinnati and St. Louis Special. 
7.15 p. m. (daily) Pacific Express. 

Springfield Line 


Hartford, New Haven and New York. 

9.00 A. M. 

11.00 A. M. 

♦12.00 Noon 

4.00 P. M. 

11.00 P. M. 


(ex. Sunday) 3.30 P. M. 
5.30 P. M. 

5.40 P. M. 
10.00 P. M. 

7.41 A. M. 

(ex. Sunday) 
(ex. Sunday) 



*This train in composed entirely of drawing-room 
cars, and special ticket which entitles holder to seat 
in drawing-room car required ; tickets will not be 
sold beyond seating capacity of train. 

For tickets, information, time-tables, etc., 
apply to nearest ticket agent. 







tT is difficult to fit the right adjective to this desk. 
I It needs a new one, fresh-made, to rightly describe it. 

Inside it is a perfect warren of convenience. 
The sub-divisions were planned by a clever mind, 
who had a good ear for questions and answered 
them all. 

The drawer arrangement is excellent. Round 
the top runs a brass gallery for guarding books or 

All this means nothing to you till you know 
the price. You will scarcely believe that this is one 
of the cheapest desks in our collection. 


Paine's Furniture Co., 


Fine Carpets. 

The finest line of specialties in 

Axminsters, Wiltons, and 
Brussels Carpets 

ever offered by us. 
These are all our patterns, with a full line of the 





Is .". and. '. H 





163 to 169 WASHINGTON ST., 


9 . .-,„ (COR. 

imgf mWt* fe f 






Rates (for y 2 dozen or more pieces) 60 cents per dozen. Less than ^ dozen pieces, list prices. 
Fancy ironing (dresses, skirts, sacques, etc.) charged at the rate of 30 cents per hour. Ladies' work 
in charge of lady assistants. All work guaranteed, and, if not satisfactory, may be returned to the 

Work called for and delivered without charge. 


L. F. Morse. 

J. T. Mellers. 


W^H : : MM (H I'lilZES. 2 of SIO© each; 4 of $5©; 12 of !S2S ; SO of $10. 

alii i ; I I — ™«=. Poems not to exceed 24 lines, averaging 8 words. Competitors f<> remit 

^JF I ^# *^ %^ ■ ■ ■ $1.00 and receive a gross of the new " Poet's " hen and a combination Rub- 
ber Penholder. Write name and address on separate sheet. Send poems before .Jan. l/S^t. Awards made by 
competent judges soon after. Circulars The E«terhrook Steel l'en Co., 26 John St., X. Y. 

Manufacturers and Dealers in 

Steam Launches, Sail Boats, Row Boats, Canoes, 

First-class work done at reasonable rates. Particular attention given to Light Cedar Boats and Canoes. 

The Director of the Gymnasium and the Captains of the Boat crews testify to the 
satisfaction which our work has given in Wellesley. 

Warerooms, 394 Atlantic Ave., 


Harriette Anthony, 



Studio, 154 Tremont Street, 



SHr^i/e, <?Ru/r\p 9 eou/ qo., 

147 Tremont Street, Corner of West, 

Jewellers and Silversmiths. 


PROGRAMS and INVITATIONS, both printed and engraved. Class Day programs a specialty. 

CLASS PINS designed and manufactured to order. 

PARASOLS and UMBRELLAS made to order, re-covered and repaired. 

d>»!ok op 868 // 146 Tremont St. 

Broadway, N. Y. +S BOSTON 

pure, ^pegh ar$>d ©eli©ioa§ ©ar->die§. 

y Choice ^Selection of Kancy Baskets, Boxes and Donbonnieres constantly 

on r;and at very reasonable prices. 


ff)e,dic<al Solleg 


0ir)<ar) s 


Session '92-'93 opens October 1st, 1892. Three years Graded Course. Instruction by Lectures, Clinics, 
Recitations and practical work, under supervision in Laboratories and Dispensary of College, and in U. S. 
Infirmary. Clinics and operations in most of the City Hospitals and Dispensaries open to Women Students. 
For Catalogues etc., address 


321 East l?th Street, New York. 

SHE. This is the easiest and 
most comfortable wheel I ever 

HE. Of course. We ride 
Columbia Pneumatics, and 
they hold the market on com- 

Catalogues free. 

"The Finest in the Land." 


Orders receive prompt atten- 
tion leftwith 

D. Daekett, flgt, 



Yes, lots of them. 

Big lamps to stand on the floor. 

Medium sized lamps to put on tables. 

Tiittle lamps to go and sit in a corner with 

when you don't feel sociable. 

All these and many more. 

Buy one if you want to make your room 


Never before was there such variety of design, 

or such beauty of execution. 

Never were the shades so artistic. 

Never were the prices so low. 

Come and see. 



Opposite R. H. White & Co.'s. 


Our Fall Importations have come, and the assortment, both as to qualities and shades, is very com- 
plete. Special attention is called to the following grades: 

" LENOX." — This is our own exclusive make of Glove. It has given thorough satisfaction to 
our best customers for several years. It is a strictly first quality Suede Glove. This season's importation 
includes all the staple shades and some new shades. The following styles are very popular : 7-Hook 
Foster Lacing at $1.65 per pair, and 6-Button Mousquetaire at $1.75 per pair. We also carry this last 
Glove in lengths from 4 to 30 Buttons. 

DENT'S LONDON GLOVES— We make a specialty of Dent's English Gloves. They 
are specially adapted for Driving and for Street Wear. This season's importation includes a popular style 
of Castor Gloves at $1 .00 per pair. 



Tremont Street & Temple Place, - - - - BOSTON. 



open every Monday and Tuesday. 

Duplicates of last year portraits and Tree -day 
groups can be had at the Wellesley Studio, 

Importers of 

Japanese (Boote, 

Offer Special Attractions in dainty Japanese conceits, 
suitable for Christmas gifts, not obtainable else- 

Low Prices and Courteous Treatment. 

54 Summer Street. 

The only store in Boston dealing In Japa- 
nese, Chinese and India goods exclusively.